Previously on Specimen S:
***
For the next five hours, Cameron drilled S on the information he wanted the child to know. Had S known any better, he would have called the lessons brainwashing attempts, not an education. Oh, it was true that Cameron did teach the boy some things. S could recite the names of every major city in the world, what countries they were in, and who was in charge. He could accurately point out every type of military equipment from a series of photographs. He could easily figure out the longitude and latitude of any place Cameron could possibly mention.
None of the information that Cameron fed S was hard for the child to learn. He had only to see or hear it once, and the information imbedded itself into his memory. It became an indelible part of his limited knowledge. And yet, S had the nagging feeling that Cameron was withholding information from him, even at that young age. He'd witnessed Cameron count off items from separate piles and come up with a new amount. S just couldn't figure out how Cameron did it. He'd asked once. The question had enraged Trask, and he'd forced S to endure the harmful effects of the green stone for the better part of an hour.
S had never questioned Cameron again after that incident. He wisely held his tongue, bit back any questions he had, and submitted to doing only what Trask asked of him, when it was asked of him. He became as compliant as possible. But alone in his cell at night, S often wept bitterly and wondered what lay beyond the walls of the compound that made up his home - the only home he'd ever known.
He looked forward to the times when he was allowed a rest from his labors. If Cameron was feeling generous, S would be allowed short periods of time outdoors. S reveled in the sunlight during those hours. Perhaps he was imagining it, but it felt to him like he became stronger, more alive in the gentle caress of the sun. It was almost like the warm rays fed his body. It made S all the more miserable on the days he was stuck indoors.
He never complained however. Not to anyone. Not even to Jenson, who had always treated him as gently as possible. And certainly not to Trask. S feared the man. He feared the shard of green stone the man forever had hanging about his neck, ready to pull out and use to punish S at the drop of a hat. Instead, S chose to suffer in silence, dutifully playing the part Cameron wanted of him. To do so, S tried to harden his heart. He knew Cameron wanted him to be able to hurt and kill people, once he grew older and stronger. Who they were, S didn't know. They were simply "the enemy." But S had the impression that "the enemy" was anyone who wasn't Bureau Thirty-Nine.
Try as he might, S found it impossible to force himself to become the cold-hearted killer Cameron wanted him to become. He found such delight in the small things - a bird flying overhead when he was outdoors, a butterfly landing on his nose, the sweet perfume of the flowers that grew in the rough landscape where the compound was located. He couldn't understand why Trask wanted him to destroy so many wonderful, fascinating things.
The more S thought about it, the more it kept him awake at night. The more it flooded his young body with terror for what the future held. He didn't want to kill. He didn't want to destroy. He simply wanted to live his life.
***
December 23, 1978
Night had finally settled over Bureau Thirty-Nine's compound. S sat alone in his cell, on the rough army cot that served as his bed. His legs dangled off the side, and he swung them listlessly. He felt incredibly lonely in the absolute quiet, as he often did at night. Part of him enjoyed, even relished, the time alone. It meant he wasn't being tested. It meant Cameron wasn't cramming his head full of bad thoughts. It meant S wasn't subjected to the endless attempts to twist his personality into a mindless drone, into Trask's own, personal, super soldier. It meant Cameron wasn't torturing him with that chuck of Kryptonite.
And yet, on the other hand, S had never really liked being alone, with no one to talk to.
S knew, just from observing Trask's men, that they were becoming afraid of him. They never came near him. In fact, they barely glanced in his direction now. S knew he was not quite the same as them, even if he looked just like them. He could easily outrun them - could outrun their cars. He barely had to exert himself to do anything. He didn't sweat in the heat. He didn't shiver in the cold. And he was slowly becoming very, very strong. He could already lift twice his own weight, barely straining to lift the heavy barbell whenever Jenson tested him.
There were other things too. Things that set him apart from the others. Things he didn't tell Jenson, or anyone, for that matter, about.
Things that terrified the twelve year old boy.
He could hear everything around him. He could hear the generator in the basement as though it were right next to him in his small cell. He could hear the heat whooshing through the radiator system, a steady hissing sound like an angry snake. He could hear Jenson in his office, absently clicking a pen against his teeth, a sure sign the man was deep in thought. He could hear Jenson's heart beating, steady and strong. And somewhere in the storage area, a mouse was ferreting through a box, tearing strips of old newspaper to use in lining its nest.
S hadn't been able to control what he could hear in the beginning. He'd been in agony then, as his hearing zeroed in on everything around him. A sneeze coming from a worker somewhere down the hall had become a bombshell in S' ears. The sounds of crickets at night had kept him awake, driving him slowly crazy. The footsteps of ants out beyond his cell could not have been louder in his delicate ears. The faltering heart rhythm of Eric Princely had alerted S to the fact that the man's heart was diseased. Princely had dropped dead an hour later.
But through self discipline and a lot of practice on his own, at night when he was finally alone, S had begun to master his special hearing. He could now tune in and out of his hearing as he pleased - most of the time. There were still occasions when it took him off guard. Just that afternoon, a sudden burst of radio static had entered his hearing and made him wince in pain.
S kept his hearing abilities to himself. He didn't want anyone to know what he was capable of. They might try to use it against him somehow. And S feared more testing. He feared Cameron would find a way to try and make S use his ability to hurt people in the future. And, S acknowledged to himself, he could use the strange, sometimes frightening, ability to listen in on the private conversations all around him, though he often felt guilty about doing so. Most of what he overheard was useless. What did he care if Cameron was upset with his son, Jason, for dropping out of college? What was college anyway?
Then, there was the frightening developments happening to S' eyes. That scared him worse than his abnormal hearing. If he tried hard enough, he could see right through objects. Walls of stone and metal meant nothing. When he concentrated, he could see right through the barrier to look at what lay beyond. He could look straight through a person's skin and examine the bones and muscles that made up a body.
It had terrified S, the first time he'd encountered it. Cameron had been well into one of his lessons, and S had been staring at the man, his mind wandering somewhat. The next thing he knew, S wasn't seeing Trask anymore. He was looking at the man's insides. He'd watched as the man's heart had pumped the blood in his veins, had seen the ripples on the surface of Trask's brain, had seen the scar on the bone of the man's left arm, the only reminder of a break he'd suffered as a boy.
S hadn't known what to make of this new development. He had only known that he wasn't about to interrupt Trask. He had only known to hide this new ability.
That night, in his cell, S had tried to duplicate the event. He'd stared at his wall intently for hours, hoping to reproduce the strange vision so that he might come to understand it better. He'd succeeded after a long time, the wall falling away to reveal the moonlit trees beyond the confines of his cell. Every night since then, S had spent some time working on the ability, and enjoying the view it afforded him of the outside world. It was the only bit of solace that he had. And the more he stared through the wall to the outside world, the more he yearned to be free.
S sighed to himself as he sat on the rough cot. To occupy himself, he stretched out his hearing, ferreting out all the members of Bureau Thirty-Nine. He could hear Trask in his office, locking it up for the night. The metal keys jingled merrily as they clinked together. S heard the sharp snap as the bolt of the lock slammed into place. Footsteps approached, and S listened with even greater attention.
"Goodnight, sir," Jenson said. S could picture the pleasant smile on the man's face.
"Night, Jenson." Trask's voice was gruff, preoccupied.
"Merry Christmas," Jenson said brightly. "The same to Marlene and Jason."
S heard Cameron snort his acknowledgement. "Make sure S' cell is secure before you leave."
"Of course."
"I promised Marlene we'd visit her parents for the holiday. I won't be around until the twenty-seventh. Take some time for yourself, if you want."
"I...that's very generous of you, sir."
"Leave enough food for S."
S grimaced. He'd heard Cameron say the same thing when speaking about an animal.
"Will do," Jenson agreed. "I think I might fly out to Vegas if you don't mind my taking the time. My sister's been sick, and I'd really ought to go see her."
"By all means."
"Thank you, sir. Have a good holiday."
S dialed his hearing back to normal levels. He'd asked Jenson once, what Christmas was. Jenson had told him, in halting tones, about the holiday. S had tried to imagine what it might be like - to spend the day surrounded by family, a large meal, gifts, and a reason to celebrate. But he couldn't do it. He couldn't imagine what it would be like. And that thought stuck fast in his mind. What would it be like, to have someone care about him? Not for the abilities he had. Not for the perceived ideas of what he might be able to do in the future. But for him, S, for the person he was on the inside. S had sighed then, knowing that would never happen. And on more than one occasion since then, the knowledge had caused him to cry himself to sleep.
A few minutes later, Jenson entered S' cell. He set down a fairly large assortment of sandwiches and snacks, fruits and cereals. All things that didn't require refrigeration or heat. Bottles of juice and water joined the rest in a tidy pile in the far corner of S' cell. Jenson gave the boy an apologetic smile.
"I'll be gone for a few days," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "This should tide you over until then. I don't know who else might be around. And you know the security guards won't come near your room."
"I know," S sighed.
"I'm sorry," Jenson said.
"Don't be," S replied, staring down at his feet. "You have a life outside of this place. I'm the only one who has to be here all the time."
"I'll be back before you know it. Besides, you'll be getting a break from Cameron too. So that's something to be happy about."
S nodded. Jenson was right about that at least. S could take some small kernel of comfort in that fact. He said nothing to Jenson however.
"Bye, S," Jenson said, closing the door and locking it behind him.
S listened as Jenson walked off, whistling a tune. He guessed it was one of the songs that went with the mysterious holiday of Christmas, for S only heard the man whistling it around this time each year. A few minutes later, S heard Jenson's car start up, then the crunch of the tires on gravel as he turned out of the driveway and headed for home.
S was now totally alone. He looked at the pile of food Jenson had left for him and opened a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He ate it distractedly, as the thoughts swirled in his head. He stifled a sigh as he once again slipped into unhappy thoughts about how he'd never know what it was like to have someone care for him. A mother or a father. A brother or sister. A wife. A child of his own. He'd even settle just for one real friend.
He gazed at the lock that held him prisoner. And, as he stared, a thin line of searing heat emanated from his eyes. S blinked in surprise, cutting off the flow of heat when he saw the thick steel door beginning to melt. A surge of panic rushed through his entire body. What was happening to him now? His heart began to hammer in his chest as phantom alarm bells rang inside his mind. He clamped his eyes shut, not wishing to burn anything else, and hoping that the heat wouldn't sear straight through his eyelids.
But then, a thought occurred to him.
This could be his chance to escape. Jenson was gone. Cameron was gone. The only people left in the compound were a few rotund security guards. And, if he was hearing things correctly, they were busy celebrating the holiday early. S could hear their drunken singing, could hear the glasses of spiked eggnog clinking together as they all swallowed down another round.
Determination settled over S. He would take this chance. He didn't know if he'd ever get another. The world beyond the compound was terrifying, but not as much as living his life as Trask's personal lab specimen. S opened his eyes, focused on the door, and tried to figure out how he'd summoned the heat earlier.
For a long time, he remained unsuccessful. His heart sank and his hope fled. He was about ready to give up when, at last, a hesitant tendril of heat poured from his eyes. At first, it barely had any effect on anything. But gradually, S was able to focus it, strengthen it, and shape it into a effective, precise laser. S worked at the door until it he managed to cut a hole in it, wide enough for him to crawl through. It was, unfortunately, a huge red flag of how he'd escaped, but he didn't care. Getting as far away from Bureau Thirty-Nine was the only concern flashing through his mind.
Glancing around his small cell, S picked up a thin windbreaker. It had deep pockets, which S thought useful. He slipped into the garment and then knelt by the pile of food Jenson had left for him. He rooted through it, packing as much as he could into the various pockets he sported. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. And yet, he regretted that he could not take it all with him.
Cautiously, quietly, S slipped down the silent halls of the compound. He made his way down to Trask's office. The door was locked, but S melted the knob until it ran in a red-hot rivulet down the door. With no lock to hold it in place any longer, the door easily swung open. S didn't turn on any lights. Enough spilled in from the lights in the rough parking lot, filtered as they were through the blinds on the window. Plus, S never really had trouble seeing in the dark. He looked around the office for a brief moment, then saw what he was looking for.
A manila file folder lay on Cameron's desk. S knew it was about him, from the symbol emblazoned on the cover. It perfectly matched the one he was forced to wear on the back and chest of all of his shirts, like a shameful brand, marking him as Cameron's property. He picked the folder up without bothering to thumb through it. He couldn't read the words inside anyway. No one had ever taken the time to teach him. But he wanted to take it with him, in an effort to help him fade away into non-existence.
He was about to exit through Trask's office window when he paused. Glancing around the room, his eyes flickered to the small globe resting on one of the bookshelves. S couldn't explain it, but he had always felt drawn to the object. He'd never been allowed to touch anything in Cameron's office, had never even had the desire to, knowing he'd be punished if he did.
Except for that globe. He'd always had the intense yearning to hold it and examine it.
Now, however, there was no one to stop him. No one to punish him. He listened intently, ensuring that the guards were all still enjoying their impromptu holiday celebration. Satisfied, he stepped over to the shelf and grabbed the globe, stretching on the tips of his toes in order to reach the high shelf.
At first, he couldn't see anything special about the object - certainly nothing that would explain his life-long fascination with it. It was just a rough map-face of Earth. S had seen the same land and sea shapes reprinted in flat maps before. But then, as he looked at the globe in his hand, the map changed. A single word formed in his mind, whispered from the deepest part of his consciousness.
Krypton.
S got frightened and shoved the globe deep into his pocket. The experience had unnerved him, but he was loathe to leave the globe behind. He knew, somehow, that it was a part of him. Then, he silently opened the window to the cold night beyond, and let himself out of the compound. He dropped to the ground in a crouch, wincing at the sound of the gravel shifting as he impacted it. For a long moment, he hid there in the shadows, looking and listening. But no one was aware of his escape.
It was time.
S took off running, funneling all his energy into a ground-eating pace. He didn't know what direction he was heading. North, south, east, or west - it simply didn't matter. All that mattered was that he was free. All that mattered was that he never be found. All that mattered was that he never have to see Trask ever again. And so he ran, never looking back, save for the occasional fearful glance over his shoulder to ensure no one was following him. But no one was.
S was barely aware of anything as he ran. He saw neither the scenery he was passing, nor the tell-tale changes in the stars and moon, indicating the passage of time. He kept off the roads, taking care to stay away from any place that might still have people. He didn't want anyone to see him. They might try to hurt him, like Trask. Or worse - they might return him to Trask.
As he ran, his thoughts turned to the globe. It seemed a safer topic to dwell on than his new-found freedom and all the uncertainties it held. Why had the map-face changed? What was Krypton? Or was it who? Was Krypton a person? S felt fairly sure that the word was describing the new map the globe now displayed. Was it really connected to him somehow? He'd overheard Cameron discussing the "alien child, S" before. Was S truly not of Earth? Was that why he was so different from everyone else?
Each question spawned a dozen others, questions S had no real way of finding answers to. It weighed heavily on his mind and heart, until, at last, he had to force the thoughts away. He tried to focus only on the road directly ahead of him. He had no plan of what to do. He didn't even want to try to formulate one just yet. He only wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and Bureau Thirty-Nine. How long would it take before his absence was noted? How long before they found his trail? How long before they caught up with him?
Around midnight, S stopped in the shade of a large oak tree to rest. His energy reserves were dipping. He was ravenously hungry too, but he had so little in the way of provisions. He sighed, acknowledging that he'd have to eat sparingly, until he could find a new source of food, and something to carry it in. He fished out an apple from one of his jacket pockets and ate it in silence. It tasted sweet to his tongue, more so than ever before. Perhaps it was his freedom that made it taste so delectable. He took a thoughtful sip from the plastic water bottle he'd taken with him, careful not to drink much. He turned his thoughts to the road ahead again, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his body against the cold. The temperature didn't bother him, but the uncertainties before him sent a very real chill down his spine nonetheless.
He'd need a place to hide out in during the daylight hours. He had to keep unseen. He couldn't risk being found - not by Trask, not by anyone. He wanted to travel as far as he possibly could before holing up for the day. But he also knew that if he saw someplace that offered a good place to hide, he'd be forced to stop early if it came to it. Sighing, he stood and brushed the grass from his pants. Then he took off again, running at top speed across the cold, silent, dark landscape.
Three hours later, he had passed through a few more state borders, though he was unaware of this fact. He came across a flat swath of land dotted with farmsteads. He wanted to keep going, but found the rest of his energy reserve flagging. He was quickly running out of steam. His pace slowed until he was moving at a very human jog.
He found himself on one of the farms. He was close by a barn. He could smell the fresh straw and the scent of cows. It would be warm inside, he knew, and probably had a place where he could rest. It was tempting, to say the least. But as he thought about it, he shook his head to himself. Too dangerous. He might be seen.
He moved on to the next farm.
The house was completely dark and quiet at that small hour of the morning. Next to the tidy farmhouse was a work shed. That would make a better hiding place, he decided. The door wasn't locked when he tried it, and he cautiously pushed it open. It groaned slightly on its hinges, but it was a soft sound. S stopped and listened nonetheless, but he didn't hear anyone in the house stirring. Emboldened, he pushed the door open wider, then slipped inside. He shut the door behind him.
Even in the dark, S could see the orderliness of the shed. Everything had a place. And almost everything was in its designated place. A few tools lay scattered on a work bench, perhaps dropped in haste to get to dinner, perhaps left out for quick access in finishing the project they'd been employed for in the morning. S had never seen such a variety of items, and couldn't even begin to imagine what they might be used for.
But the tidiness of the place was somewhat comforting. He'd lived his whole life in a place where military neatness had been strictly adhered to. It made the new setting feel almost familiar. And yet, that worried S. Were the people in the house military personnel? Did they know Trask? But, S also took comfort from the fact that despite the orderliness of the place, some things were somewhat out of place, broken, or disordered. Trask had never allowed for that, not even in Jenson's private office. If these people could tolerate things being out of place, surely they couldn't be military - could they?
There was a faint trace of paint fumes in the air. S could tell that, even without the help of his burgeoning super sense of smell. It wasn't hard to see where it was coming from. An easel stood in one corner of the shed, a canvas still on it. S wandered over to it and inspected the painting. A crude landscape was splashed across the canvas, still unfinished, and still lacking a sense of depth. S wasn't a good judge of art, but he could see the places where it still needed more paint. He thought that whoever's skilled hand had been working on it would probably succeed in making it a very nice picture indeed. Already, unfinished though it still was, it exuded a kind of peace that seemed to leap from the rough canvas and straight into his body.
S turned away from the painting reluctantly, giving thought now to where he might sleep. He saw a pile of loose straw in one corner of the room. It smelled dry and fresh. It was both welcoming and inviting. S quickly shed his jacket and went to the straw. As much as he could, he buried himself down into his pauper's bed, throwing the jacket on top of his body as a sort of makeshift blanket. Soon, only his head peeked out from the straw. He was almost instantly wrapped in a deep, dreamless, restful sleep.
To Be Continued...
