The lock clicked again.
Jason moved in front of Emily and the baby without thinking. I stepped beside him, staring at the wall where the sound had come from.
The stranger raised one hand.
“Don't touch anything.”
Nobody listened.
A narrow section of concrete slid sideways with a soft mechanical hum. Behind it was another corridor, darker than the laboratory we'd just entered.
Emily whispered, “There was another room?”
The stranger's face had lost all its color.
“I didn't know.”
Jason looked at him.
“You've been here before.”
“Not this section.”
“You expect us to believe that?”
“I expected this place to be sealed.”
The opening widened.
A faint blue light spilled across the floor.
We could see another room at the end of the corridor.
There was a glass wall.
Behind it stood a single hospital bed.
A monitor beside it was still running.
I felt the hairs rise along my arms.
“Someone's been here recently,” I said.
The stranger nodded.
The machine was too clean. The cables weren't covered in dust. A small green indicator blinked steadily near the monitor.
Jason reached for the door.
“Wait,” I said.
He stopped.
On the glass was a handprint.
Fresh.
Small.
Not an adult's hand.
Emily tightened her hold on the baby.
“Is there a child in there?”
The stranger approached the glass.
His breathing changed.
“No.”
“What?”
He pointed toward the bed.
It was empty.
Then we noticed the photographs taped along the wall.
The first showed our mother.
The second showed me as a child.
The third showed Jason.
The fourth showed a little girl I had never seen.
The fifth showed another child.
A boy.
He looked about ten years old.
His back was turned.
The same mark was visible beneath his shirt collar.
Jason stared at the photograph.
“Who is that?”
The stranger didn't answer.
“Who is he?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“No.”
Jason grabbed the photograph.
The paper had been taken recently.
There was a date printed at the bottom.
Three months earlier.
The boy was alive.
Someone had been documenting him.
I looked at the next photograph.
The boy was older.
Then older again.
A sequence of pictures showed him growing from a toddler into a teenager.
There were no names.
Only numbers.
12.
13.
14.
Then a handwritten note appeared beneath the last image.
Transfer unsuccessful.
Jason looked at me.
“That's Subject 14.”
The stranger nodded slowly.
“But the monitor said the child in our arms wasn't Subject 14.”
I looked down at the baby.
She was awake now.
Her eyes were open.
She seemed to be staring past me toward the glass.
The stranger noticed.
“Move her away.”
Emily stepped backward.
The baby's eyes followed the room.
Then she began crying.
The monitor inside the glass room beeped.
Once.
Twice.
The screen lit up.
A sequence appeared.
Then another.
The stranger whispered, “No.”
Jason turned.
“What?”
“She's triggering the system.”
“Why?”
“Because the laboratory recognizes her.”
I looked at the monitor.
A line of text appeared.
SUBJECT 13 RESPONSE DETECTED.
Then:
SUBJECT 12 RESPONSE DETECTED.
Then:
SUBJECT 14 RESPONSE DETECTED.
Jason stepped closer.
“But you said—”
The stranger shook his head.
“I was wrong.”
The monitor changed again.
A final message appeared.
SUBJECT 14 = COMPOSITE.
Emily stared.
“What does composite mean?”
The stranger looked at the baby.
“It means she contains more than one preserved sequence.”
Jason's face hardened.
“How many?”
The stranger didn't answer.
“How many?”
“Three.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“Whose?”
The stranger looked at me.
“Your mother's.”
He looked at Jason.
“Yours.”
Then he looked toward the old photograph of the boy.
“And his.”
The room went silent.
I stared at the picture.
“Who is he?”
“I told you I don't know.”
“Then find out.”
The stranger approached a terminal.
He entered a code.
The screen opened to a database.
Thousands of entries appeared.
Most were marked terminated.
Some were archived.
One was active.
Subject 14.
Status: transferred.
Location: unknown.
Jason pointed.
“Transferred where?”
The field was blank.
“Who transferred him?”
Another field.
Authorized by: E.P.
I recognized the initials.
“Evelyn Prescott.”
The stranger looked at me.
“No.”
“What?”
“Those aren't your mother's initials.”
“Then whose?”
He stared at the screen.
“Ethan Prescott.”
I frowned.
“Who is Ethan?”
The stranger's expression changed.
“Your father's name.”
My father had been Edward Prescott.
Not Ethan.
I knew that.
I said so.
The stranger looked confused.
“Edward?”
“Yes.”
He stared at the screen again.
Then he opened another file.
The name appeared.
EDWARD PRESCOTT.
But underneath it was another identification number.
E.P.-14.
Jason leaned closer.
“Dad had a second identity.”
The stranger whispered, “Apparently.”
Something moved behind the glass.
Emily screamed.
We all turned.
The hospital bed was still empty.
But a shadow had passed across the far wall.
Jason reached for the door.
The stranger caught his arm.
“Don't.”
“Someone is in there.”
“That's exactly why you shouldn't.”
The shadow appeared again.
This time, we saw the outline of a person.
Small.
A child.
Standing behind the glass.
Then the figure stepped into the blue light.
It was the boy from the photograph.
He looked directly at us.
Jason whispered, “He's alive.”
The boy raised one hand.
He touched the glass.
Then he pointed toward the floor.
I followed his finger.
There was a small metal box beneath the bed.
The boy pointed again.
Then he stepped backward.
The lights went out.
The door opened.
The boy was gone.
Jason rushed inside.
The stranger followed.
I stayed with Emily.
A second later Jason shouted.
“There's nobody here!”
Then the building shook.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
The stranger emerged carrying the metal box.
“We have to leave.”
Jason stared at him.
“What is that?”
“The answer.”
“To what?”
The stranger looked toward the passage.
“To why your father built this place.”
We followed him back into the laboratory.
The box required a key.
The stranger produced one from his pocket.
Jason noticed.
“You had that the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“You knew this box existed.”
“I knew there was a box.”
He opened it.
Inside were three objects.
A cassette tape.
A photograph.
And a small envelope addressed in my father's handwriting.
My name was written on it.
Not Subject 12.
Not a number.
My name.
I took it.
The envelope had never been opened.
My hands shook as I tore it apart.
Inside was a single page.
If you are reading this, then the child has been born.
I continued.
Do not trust the people who call themselves the original researchers.
They are no longer the ones in control.
The second line made my heart stop.
Your brother was never meant to be Subject 13.
Jason read over my shoulder.
“What does that mean?”
I kept reading.
Subject 13 was destroyed before birth.
Jason stared.
“No.”
I continued.
The child you know as your brother was created afterward.
He was never part of the original transfer.
I looked at Jason.
He looked stunned.
Then I read the final sentence.
And if the child in your arms carries the composite marker, then Subject 14 has already chosen its host.
Emily whispered, “Chosen?”
The lights flickered.
The stranger looked at the baby.
“What did your father mean by host?”
Before I could answer, the monitor came alive again.
A new message appeared.
HOST IDENTIFIED.
Then my name appeared.
Not the baby's.
Mine.
I felt the room disappear around me.
Jason grabbed my arm.
The stranger whispered, “Your father knew.”
And from somewhere deep beneath the farmhouse, a voice came through the speakers.
“Welcome home, Subject 12.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: A Voice From Beneath the Farmhouse Called Me by a Name I Had Never Used, and My Brother Discovered the One Truth Our Father Died Protecting
My Twin Brother Had Waited Years for This Child, Yet the First Thing He Saw After Her Birth Made Him Step Away
Part 9 of 20
