Short Story: Garden Of Illusion

Short Story: Garden Of Illusion

The world was empty. No traffic, no voices. There was nothing.

There was no noise from the throats of people or from anything else that was man-made. The streets which had been built once, long ago, and had once teemed with the throngs of people and machines were now barren, devoid of life.

There were only the animals.

The lioness prowled the perimeter of the apartment block, pausing only to flick away the minor annoyance of a fly with her tail. Somewhere nearby, her mate threw back his mighty head with long mane and roared, breaking the placid quiet and stillness.

Only the wire fence, ten feet high with barbed wire at the top, separated the lions from the gardens that belonged to the block of apartments.

The gardens were wild and overgrown, but nevertheless were an oasis of calm amid a vast urban desert. There was life here, despite the illusory impression. It was not discernible at first but evident upon closer inspection: the birds nesting in the trees: exotic species of myriad and wonderful colours, remarkable and unrecognisable breeds. Closer to the ground, the sound of chirping crickets were clearly audible in the undergrowth.

As the sun set, it cast its rosy, dying hue upon the horizon. With the departure of that burning orb, the air cooled considerably. The moon rose and hung in the sky like a floating silver coin. As the last of the sun’s glowing embers dissipated, the stars appeared in the night sky and twinkled in the heavens above like tiny shimmering jewels.

In the block, there were many apartments on each of its twelve floors. Most of them, indeed nearly all of them, were empty. Only one apartment on the third floor was inhabited.

In the apartment there was a young woman. Next to her bed there was a digital clock. When the display read 9.24 PM, she awoke. She sat up, and ran her fingers through her long brown hair. She leaned over from her bed and picked up a glass of water left on her bedside cabinet. She swallowed several gulps of water to ease her dry throat. After she had finished her drink, she paused for several minutes, sitting up in her bed. She stared into space, seemingly gazing at nothing in particular. Finally, she swung her legs out from under her covers and stood up. She was barefoot and wearing only her night gown. The room was only lit by the dim light of the street lamps outside, but she did not switch on her lights in the apartment. There was enough light for her to see her dressing gown hung on a hook on the bedroom door. She put it on and opened the door, stepping out into the main space of her apartment.

Everywhere was dark and silent, apart from the insistent rumbling hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen area. The woman padded softly across the cold, polished wooden floors and opened the fridge door, sending a wide stream of soft yellow light to illuminate her surroundings. The apartment was sparsely decorated, providing only minimal comfort. The workspaces in the kitchen were spotless, almost clinical in the extent of their cleanliness.

She removed a carton of milk from the refrigerator and opened one of the overhead cupboards in the kitchen to reach for a glass. Her fingers groped for empty air, before knocking against a tall glass which overbalanced and crashed upon the kitchen top. The glass broke into a multitude of pieces. It took a moment for the woman to react to what had happened. Finally, she sighed and reached for the kitchen light switch, by the wall next to her. There was a low buzz, and the florescent light flickered into life. She bent down and opened another cupboard to take out a dustpan and brush. She brushed away all the shards she could find, and emptied them into the kitchen bin. When she put the dustpan and brush away, she realised that somehow she had cut herself. She stared at the wound, a jagged slice into her right index finger, before putting her finger in her mouth. After sucking it, she rinsed it underneath the cold tap at the sink. The water was ice-cool, and stung her as it poured down. She winced slightly, and shivered. The blood reminded her…

…of another time, a time when she had also seen blood. It had been a happy time, a time with her family. She had gone to the park…with her mother? She thought perhaps her father had been there too. She had only been a little girl. They used to have a dog. A puppy, called Jake. He always made Ruth laugh, with his tricks. That was her name: Ruth. “You look ever so pretty in that dress, Ruth” someone had said. Had it been her father? Or had it been an aunt? She had been ever so proud, wearing her pretty yellow dress. She remembered playing on the grass. Her mother had warned her to be careful, and not ruin the nice new dress. “Don’t get your dress dirty,” her mother had said. “It’s your best dress.”

Outside in the garden, the nightingale began its midnight song. Beneath it, in the undergrowth, a small mouse scurried across the earth on some secret mission. The minute passage of the mouse did not go undetected, as anticipatory veiled eyes watched it from above. The owl swooped, gliding through the air, and its sharp talons pierced the flesh of the mouse, plucking it instantly from the ground. The mouse had briefly let out one small, barely audible squeak as it had been pounced upon by the winged predator. Yet as the owl flew through the air, there was a shimmer in the atmosphere, a slight disturbance…the physical form of the bird flickered and then was gone.

Moments later the endless cycle repeated itself, as beneath the birdsong of the nightingale, the small mouse scurried across the earth on a secret mission…

Somewhere, a lioness roared.

Max drifted slowly down the corridor, the soft carpet underfoot doing nothing to repel the sick feeling in his stomach. He could feel his insistent heartbeat and the dryness in his throat. Even his best tailored grey suit could not cure his anxiety and quell his agitation. He crept toward the office of his supervisor, hoping that Dr.Lancaster would not be in today, that he had taken leave or that he was indisposed. However, as Max approached the office he could see Dr.Lancaster behind his desk, he could see Lancaster’s bald head and glasses as he was leaning over some documents that he was reading at his desk. Max wasn’t sure, but he thought those papers were his personnel file.

Dr Lancaster looked up. “Hello Max,” he said. “Please come in.”

Max gulped and walked inside. Dr Lancaster closed the file he was reading and put it away in one of his desk draws. Before Max could sit down, Dr Lancaster gestured toward the entrance which was now behind Max. “Please close the door, Max.” Max dutifully turned and closed the door behind him, but he knew that none of what was happening was going to calm him. He knew that this was a serious matter.

He sat down and tried to allay the nerves with a weak smile at Dr Lancaster. Dr Lancaster did not respond. His expression was cold and serious.

“Max,” he said, “Security is a very important matter at this facility, as I am sure you are aware. We take all such matters very seriously indeed. We have a … responsibility. Now…where and when do you think you lost your pass?”

Ruth poured fresh milk into a new glass. She filled the glass until it was almost full, close to the rim. When she had finished, she put the carton away and she drank. She drank without pause, until all the milk was finished. When she was done, she wiped away the traces of milk that stained the sides of her mouth with her hand. She washed the glass in the sink. When she was finished, she switched the kitchen light off, plunging the area into darkness again. She went back into her bedroom and hung up her dressing gown. Before getting back into bed, she glanced outside the window. She could see the orange glare of the streetlamps emanating through the branches of the trees. The trees that bordered her garden. She looked through the bushes and trees, through the wire fence at the road. She saw that the road was empty and silent, as it always was. It made her smile: a happy smile of contentment. She got back into bed, pulling the covers over her. Finally, she rested her head on her pillow and closed her eyes.

The digital clock on the bedside cabinet next to her read 9.24 PM.

He had waited for his moment. It had been so easy. Even for him, despite his meticulous planning and the research he had done, he had to admit it had been so ridiculously easy. He hadn’t expected his mark to be such a fool. He knew that the young man was an idiot, from the moment he’d seen him boasting and bragging to his friends on the Metro.

The young man had been so distracted, so foolish and careless that it had been nothing at all, an easy take. His mark had not suspected a thing. He’d followed him to work every day for a week, and back. He’d come to know his habits. He’d come to know his routines, his daily rituals. He’d seen everything that the young man did. When his chance had come, he’d taken it.

He had become practised in picking pockets. Once, he’d done it to survive. Eventually, it had become part of his profession. He allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. He had taken his prize. Now he had the key to the city.

Ruth dreamed. She dreamed of happy, sunny days. Days where…

…she was carefree and never worried about a thing. Those childish days when she danced in the sunshine, and ran across the grass. Days when she was with her mummy and daddy, and they all laughed, and she played with Jake, her little puppy.

But all those endless, happy days had to come to an end. And one day they did. She remembered the last day. She had been running on the grass and playing, like always she enjoyed doing. She’d been wearing her best yellow dress. Mummy had told her not to spoil her dress, not to stain it in the grass. Daddy had been there as well. He had been talking to Mummy about something he was worried about. Ruth remembered it well, now. Daddy had not been smiling and happy like he usually was. Daddy had been anxious about something. She remembered his furrowed brow, and the frown on his face. Daddy wasn’t usually like that, not when he was with her anyway.

Then a shadow had fallen across the day…someone dark, something wrong…no one was laughing any more. No one was smiling. Something was wrong.

In her bed, in her apartment in the tower block, Ruth murmured with unconscious distress. Her eyelids flickered and she began to stir. Her mouth parted and she turned over on her side, pulling the bed sheets away from her.

Today was the day. He had prepared for the occasion. He decided to wear his best suit, as he did for such moments. He wore his best gloves, of black leather. He wore his sunglasses. He didn’t like people to see his face. It was best that they did not. He was one of his employer’s best operatives, and his identity was a closely guarded secret.

He carried his favourite gun, his weapon of choice. He had made sure it was fully loaded and attached the silencer. He had taken it apart and re-constructed it many times. He knew every furrow, every groove. When he held it in his hand he felt comfortable and relaxed with it. He had no conscience when he had to look any target in the eye, even when they begged, and pleaded. He was businesslike and professional. It always happened swiftly, and simply. His favourite place to shoot them was right between the eyes. He’d done it many times, and had always been fascinated by the final empty fixed gaze his victims wore, as the blood trickled down the bridge of their noses, toward their cheek…

Ruth cried out and lashed her arm out from her body in her sleep. She was there, back in that day again. Daddy was frightened…

…and she’d never seen Daddy frightened before. He had been standing close to Mummy, whispering to her.

“I know too much,” his lips had said. “They won’t want me to talk.”

Now Mummy’s face had become serious and upset. Now Ruth had sensed the change in the atmosphere. She had seen something before they had done. She’d seen something very important before her Mummy and Daddy had done. She had seen the shadow, approaching.

Daddy was now looking over his shoulder. “…think that man is following us,” his lips said. Now Mummy had turned to look.

Mummy and Daddy had stopped and now they had seen the shadow too. Ruth wanted to tell them to run away, not to stop. She wanted to shout and tell them to move, because she had seen the shadow and she knew that the shadow was a bad man.

Ruth knew that something bad was going to happen. For her that was when the darkness came…all a blur…Daddy’s eyes empty…blood on her yellow dress. Her best yellow dress.

Outside the tower block where Ruth slept, in the sky the moon turned copper-red, like milk mixing with red dye, before fading slowly back to white again.

He was there, moving quietly and insidiously toward the entrance. An employee passed him and he offered the smile. It was his cool, businesslike smile. It was the smile that said he was a professional, and that he had every right to be there, so back off, look away, don’t question me. He stood in front of the entrance, and read the sign in bold letters next to the doorway: VIRTUA-TREATMENT. He smiled and reached inside the pocket of the suit for his pass. He held it close to the sensor, and also held his breath. There was a buzz, and the door clicked open. He breathed out in relief, and stepped inside the cold, clinical and sterile air of the reception area.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist said.

He took out his gun and shot her once in the face, without missing a beat. He paused only to look over the desk to check that she was dead, before crossing the reception area to wait for an elevator. He already knew the floor and room number of his target.

The animals outside were becoming restless. The lion and his lioness prowled their territory with a pent-up aggression, roaring and swishing their tails with annoyance. The birds took flight from their perches, swooping around the perimeter of the garden. Even the monkeys were agitated, screeching with nervous tension.

Inside the tower block, inside her apartment, Ruth tossed and turned, sweat dripping from her brow. She was thinking about the shadow, and she knew that he was close…

….so close that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck as she leaned over her Daddy and looked into his empty eyes, and heard her Mummy screaming. She remembered the blood that was dripping down Daddy’s face and how it had got everywhere. That was how her best yellow dress had got so badly stained. That was where the blood had come from.

“Don’t look at me,” the shadow had said.

But Mummy had grabbed her arm, and Mummy had told her to run. She remembered running with Mummy, and they had both been so frightened. Ruth remembered not being able to see as they ran across the grass, because there were tears in her eyes. But then she’d fallen over, she’d fallen on the ground because Mummy had pushed her over. But Mummy hadn’t meant to push her over. When she had sat up and tried to get Mummy to wake up, she knew that wasn’t going to happen, Mummy wasn’t going to move. Mummy wasn’t going to wake up because Mummy had blood all over her head.

In her apartment, Ruth gasped and let out a terrible plaintive wail, a cry of terror and loss.

Peter had worked at VIRTUA-TREATMENT for a long time. He had been there ever since Dr Lancaster had first tested the machine, and run the first simulation on a test subject. He knew that it was an incredibly complex science, and he knew there were elements in the technology that even he and Dr Lancaster didn’t understand.

He had also worked there long enough to know the face of every employee. When the doors opened and the man in the black suit stepped out, he knew that the man shouldn’t be there. Even if he had not recognised the man’s face, he would have known that no one who worked at the facility would wear sunglasses inside the building. The man was a spook. Unfortunately, the intruder also knew he had been detected as a false presence. Before Peter could shout or raise the alarm, the man in black had raised his gun. Peter was shot before he barely registered that he was in grave danger. He fell to the polished tiled floor and saw his blood splatter. The last thing that his brain registered were the file notes for Ruth Henshall…scattered in a paper trail across the floor from where he’d let them slip from the grip of his right hand. Phrases from the notes were the last thing to flitter across the dying embers of his brain: “Severe trauma…politician father and her mother murdered….never said a word since it happened…witnessed the event…possibly a hitman involved…severe psychological disorder…responding well to treatment….ideal subject to create her own inner world…responding beyond all expectation to treatment…results unheard of….could regain consciousness and remember the face of her parents’ killer…

Then he knew only darkness.

The shadow leaned against the glass window and stared at the young woman he’d not seen for ten years. The young woman that was lying on the bed, probes and needles attached to her. A metal half-sphere covering her head, attached to the Machine. The young woman that he’d let escape when she was seven years old. The woman who lay right there: the woman that had seen his face.

In the apartment, Ruth screamed.

A crack appeared in her bedroom wall, the plaster splintering and the woodwork shredding.

“I told you not to look at me,” the shadow said.

Ruth had looked up from Mummy’s empty eyes, and seen the shadow walking toward her. She had wiped her tears away and something, somewhere deep inside her told her that she had to run. She had to get away from here; otherwise the shadow would kill her like he had killed Mummy and Daddy. Somehow she got to her feet and got her little legs moving. She heard the shadow shout and she heard the bullet that nearly killed her whistle past her ear. She ran and ran, out of the open space of the park and into the woods. She ran until she couldn’t hear the shadow breathing any more. She ran and had kept on running.

The tower block began to crumble. The stairways, vaults and empty apartments began to creak, shudder and finally collapse.

In the garden, the trees and plants were dying. Life cycles that would normally take years sped up and were finally concluded in seconds. The monkeys had already vaulted over the fence, and now the lion had taken the wire in his sharp jaws and begun to tear it apart with his vicious teeth. Above the sky changed rapidly: first light and then day, then cloud and then clear blue sky, and then finally the angry rapid swirl of storm clouds and thunder.

The floor of the apartment gave way. As the foundations of the block collapsed, the floors followed, collapsing in on themselves as gravity tugged at them with its insistent force. Ruth’s bed, with Ruth in it, fell into the widening abyss.

The world disappeared into nothingness. It collapsed in on itself, and was swallowed up by the empty void of vacuum. The world had come to an end. It was no more.

“Ruthie, Ruthie. I’m here at last.” The shadow leaned over her, where she lay prone on the bed. He smiled wryly to himself, glancing with curiosity toward the Machine. He traced his gun barrel from her navel up toward her bosom, teasing her flesh and waiting for a response. Her eyes, hooded by the metal half-sphere of the Machine, remained closed. It was what he had expected. Nevertheless, he felt a twinge of disappointment. He liked his victims to be alive when he took the greatest gift possible, that of life, away. He liked to see the fear in their eyes.

“Goodbye Ruth,” he whispered, as he aimed the gun toward her head. “You never should have looked at my face.”

Upon the last word he uttered- ‘face’- Ruth opened her eyes.

Yet when she opened her eyes, it was not Ruth. The eyes were not Ruth’s eyes. They were the eyes of the Machine. The Machine that Dr Lancaster had constructed was a complex tool, and even the scientist himself had not fully understood it or its possibilities and full capabilities. He had given the virtual reality machine the ability to interpret its subjects, in order to understand them and treat them in the best possible fashion. In doing so, he had unwittingly bestowed upon the Machine artificial intelligence. The Machine had taken Ruth’s emotions and her memories, and assimilated them for itself. Now Ruth’s mind was a vacuum and her body a host for the Machine.

The Machine was not willing to let its human host die. When Ruth opened her eyes, the shadow hesitated because he knew that he was not looking into the eyes of a human being. Her eyes had changed and were horrifying to look at- her eyeballs were uniformly silver. The shadow’s hesitation was crucial, and it was also fatal for him. He had touched the metal surface of Ruth’s bed chamber. The Machine sent an electrical plasma charge through the metallic surface to neutralise the nearby threat.

The shadow smelled burning flesh in the chamber. He looked around for the source before realising that he was the one that was burning. He was in the grip of a terrible internal fire. He sank to his knees, which had already begun to fry underneath him. He tried to close his eyes but realised that he could not. His eyelids had been burned away. He died slowly and in agony, for his brain was the last organ to disintegrate. The last thing he sensed was Ruth- the Machine- standing over him- and the last thing he saw were those empty, unforgiving silver eyes.