Better Than Human

  Better Than Human

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Matt Stark

  Copyright © 2016

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be copied or reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Chapter 1

  Time: Unknown; Date: Unknown; Location: Unknown

  Thud thud thud thud thud thud.

  Sam woke with a start. It was dark and something was banging like a jungle drum. Thud thud thud. He swallowed, felt a sharp pain, and then became aware of other sensations: a heavy feeling there and a tingling there. He knew the feelings belonged to him, but couldn’t make any sense of them. Then, slowly, he recognized his feet, legs, shoulders and head, and realized he was lying flat on his back in the darkness, on something firm and lumpy. Thud thud thud. The noise was deafening. What the hell? My heart! It’s my heart. He listened to its thumping hypnotic beat for a long moment, before the violent shaking of his arms and legs brought him back to reality.

  Get up!

  Sam jerked. The girl’s voice was very loud, because it hadn’t come via his ears, but from inside his head.

  Get up before you freeze to death.

  He jerked again and inhaled ice-cold air through his nostrils; doing so sent him into a fit of coughing. When it finally stopped his head was spinning. He blew out a shaky breath, trying to calm down. Three questions dominated his mind. Where the fuck was he? Who was that girl? And why was her voice in his head?

  Before he could get anywhere he felt wet material chafing against his shaking legs. That’s why he was so cold. His clothes were soaking wet. He knew hypothermia could kill but was surprised how little the thought bothered him. He decided it was time to get up anyway, but when he went to move his feet nothing happened. A twinge of fear stirred in his guts. He could feel his feet, but they were like dead weights – as if the nerves connecting them to his brain had been cut. Ignoring the butterflies in his stomach, he decided to start with something easier. An arm – that was it. He might not be able to move his feet, but an arm would be a piece of cake. But his arm was just as unresponsive as his legs. The butterflies in his stomach were replaced by an ache. He tried again as hard as he could for another thirty seconds, then blew out a ragged breath, exhausted. He couldn’t see his arm in the darkness, but knew it hadn’t moved a damn inch.

  You can’t stay here.

  This time the voice was shouting. It seemed to be coming from the centre of his skull, and was so intimate he would have mistaken it for one of his own thoughts if it hadn’t been female. Whoever she was, her bossy tone was starting to piss him off. His teeth clattered against each other. Was he sick? That would explain this damn shivering. Yes, that was it. He was in hospital with a fever. He’d passed out and wet himself. That’s why his legs were wet. He felt a moment’s excitement before reality kicked in. If he were in hospital it was far more likely he’d had a stroke, but he knew that was just as ridiculous. Whatever he was lying on wasn’t a hospital bed and the freezing air he was breathing was not from inside any building. He cursed. Dammit – he was beginning to wish he’d never woken up. Maybe he should go back to sleep?

  No! Stay awake!

  Sam jerked out of his daze. Damn her, why couldn’t she leave him alone? He just wanted to rest. Was that too much to ask?

  If you stay here you'll die.

  He knew her from somewhere. She’d been important to him. No, she was important. She’d kept him going through… Dammit, he couldn’t remember. Anyway, whoever she was, he didn’t have to listen to her. He knew what was best for him. Just a few minutes’ rest and he’d be as right as rain. He'd... Sam realized he couldn’t feel his legs anymore. It was kind of nice.

  Get up – now!

  This time the voice was screaming. Sam jolted like he’d been electrocuted, and jackknifed upright. A cold wind blew across his face. He shivered and blinked. Now that he was sitting up he could see the dim outline of his legs lying straight out in front of him. The ground underneath his backside was lumpy and cold. He reached down and brushed his fingers over soft wet spikes. Grass! Wet from a recent downpour.

  He shifted his gaze back up, and noticed shades of grey within the darkness. As he peered into the darkness he saw roughly triangular patches of black, darker than the surrounding gloom, that encircled him and loomed high above. Trees!

  The tight muscles in Sam’s shoulders relaxed a notch. He was sitting on grass, in a small clearing, surrounded by a ring of trees, in the middle of the night. It was a start. Maybe he hadn’t completely lost his mind. Above the trees, stars dotted the night sky. Sam stared at them for a long moment before feeling dizzy and looking down.

  Stand up.

  Dammit – her again. It seemed like she wasn’t going anywhere, so he might as well do as she said. He pushed himself up on cold numb legs, and stood swaying unsteadily. Standing hadn’t improved his view. He still couldn’t see past the trees. Then he noticed he wasn’t shivering anymore. Somewhere deep in his mind he knew that was bad news.

  You have hypothermia. You need to get warm. Jump up and down – now.

  Sam was past arguing with her. He started to jump up and down on the spot, almost falling several times on his numb feet. After a few seconds he stopped. It just seemed too much effort.

  You can’t stop.

  She seemed to have some kind of control over him. Sam started jumping up and down again, jerky as a foal on his numb legs. After a while painful pins and needles crept into his toes and feet, and he began to feel warmer.

  Good. Now keep going until you can feel your legs.

  He did. It took another five minutes. Finally he stopped, panting like he’d run a marathon. He waited, half expecting another instruction, but his mind was quiet. He felt disappointed, which surprised him, and for a moment he didn’t know what to do. He stood unsteadily on his still stiff legs, looking at the ring of trees. A violent shiver brought him back to reality. His body temperature was dropping again. It was still too dark to see what he was wearing so he ran a hand over his chest and down to his hips. He found jeans and a thin tee shirt and over that some kind of jacket. All of it soaking wet, and not helping retain the body heat he’d just regained. If he stayed still much longer all that jumping up and down would have been for nothing. He needed to get moving. And he needed to find out where he was. He looked at the triangular black shadows ahead. The first target was to get past that ring of trees. He pulled the jacket tight against the wind and took a shaky step forward, thinking how much he’d give to be back at home in a nice warm bed - then stopped dead. A ball of fear had formed in his stomach that made him forget the icy conditions.

  He’d tried to picture his home and but couldn’t. He shook his head. That couldn’t be right. He knew his name. He was Sam Barrick. He was… Cold fingers of fear snaked down to Sam’s groin as he searched his mind for an image of his home, wife, girlfriend, kids, parents or job. By the time he realized Sam Barrick was the sum total of his self-knowledge, and his memory extended to when he’d woken up but no farther, those icy fingers had his balls tight. He hadn’t just forgotten where he was and how he’d gotten here. He’d forgotten who he was.

  Shit shit shit.

  What was he going to do? Suddenly he really wanted that voice back again. The girl. He wanted her to tell him what to do. But his mind was still silent. He cursed, feeling fear and desperation crawling over his skin. He took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. He had to get control of himself. He had to find out where he was. And most importantly, if he wanted to
stay alive – he had to keep moving and keep warm. Clenching his hands tight he stumbled forward toward the circle of trees.

  When he reached them he leaned on the trunk of one of the larger trees to steady himself. They were thick with layers of branches, so that even now he still couldn’t see beyond them. After taking a moment to recover he pushed several branches aside to give him a view of the scene beyond. He was on a hill. City lights glimmered below perhaps a mile away. It was a large sprawling city. On the nearside an isolated cylindrical tower loomed over its neighbours. In the distance a cluster of skyscrapers rose up like concrete mushrooms, but otherwise the city was low-rise. Sam’s eyes darted left and right, searching. Then he sighed. He’d hoped seeing the world beyond the trees would bring back his memory, but it hadn’t. He didn’t recognize the city.

  He felt light-headed. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been expecting the view beyond the trees to return everything to normal. He swayed, holding the trunk like a lover and gazing down at the alien city. He realized he was completely alone and had absolutely no idea what to do.

  Then it hit him. Amnesia. He had amnesia. Sam had no idea where the thought came from, but he grasped at it because it was logical. And he needed logic to steady the screaming panic inside him. Amnesia was a medical condition. It meant he wasn’t crazy. He gripped the trunk tight, struggling to think. What caused amnesia? A blow to the head? Maybe he’d had an accident? Sam ran an unsteady hand across his scalp. After a few seconds he let his hand fall to his side and blew out a long breath. Nothing, besides hair.

  He shivered again, still holding the tree trunk for support. Even if his clothes weren’t wet through they’d be too light for a winter’s night in London. London, that’s it, he thought. I’m in London. Looking back down at the city lights he recognized the Telecom tower and high-rises in Canary Wharf. His tense jaw relaxed a little. He could deal with this. He just had to stay calm.

  I’ll head down to the city and find a hospital or a police station. As long as it’s warm and dry I don’t care. Once I’ve had a hot cup of coffee, and something to eat, I’ll have my memory back in no time.

  Already feeling better Sam let go of the tree trunk and made to start down the hill. As he did something shifted in the back pocket of his jeans. He reached back and felt a bulky, square-shaped object. Hope washed through him. Yes. It must be his wallet. Inside he’d find ID, a driver's licence, his life.

  With shaking hands Sam pulled out a leather wallet, along with a set of keys with a Maglite torch key ring. He opened the wallet, and found a plastic driver’s licence. His mouth went dry. With his free hand he flicked the Maglite’s switch, and shone its bright beam on the licence.

  Name: Sam Barrick

  Address: 43 Regents Row, London

  Date of birth: 25th March 1996

  He didn’t recognize the date of birth or the address. His eyes flicked to the photo below. He stared at it for a long moment. But it didn’t make any difference. The face gazing back at him was a stranger’s. If his name hadn’t been on it he wouldn’t have known it was his licence. Swallowing his disappointment, Sam emptied the wallet, finding a few credit and debit cards, and a five-pound note.

  He blew out another long breath, and found himself yearning to hear the girl’s voice again. He needed her to tell him what to do.

  “Keep moving, Sam,” he mumbled. Clenching his jaw again, he walked unsteadily toward the city lights below.

  Chapter 2

  Bang.

  Instinctively Sam dropped to the ground, and rolled back, away from the gunshot, under the pine tree he’d just left. He lay face down and motionless on the wet grass, holding his breath. Seconds later heavy footsteps approached. In his peripheral vision Sam saw flickering torch beams appear through the circle of trees and move into the far side of the clearing.

  “I think I got him,” said a fast, high-pitched voice in Mandarin Chinese, easily carrying to Sam through the chill night air.

  “I told you not to shoot, you dumb fuck. We need him alive.” The reply was in English, and spoken in a low growl from deep in its owner’s throat.

  Sam pushed his face into wet grass, and tried to make his breathing as quiet as possible. He had no idea if these two jokers had mistaken him for someone else, but he wasn’t about to go and ask them. He’d stay where he was and hope they didn’t find him.

  “He’s here somewhere,” said Fast-Talker, his voice nervous.

  “Shut your mouth and find the son of a bitch,” growled Deep Throat.

  These two didn’t sound like police. But whoever they were, he was sure his interests and theirs didn’t coincide. He did not want them to find him. But what the hell was he going to do? One thing was for sure: if he had to lie still here for much longer hypothermia would set in again, and if he couldn’t warm himself up by moving around, nothing else would matter. He’d be dead.

  The torch beams were still on the other side of the circle of trees. Sam considered running. But he was still weak, and didn’t trust himself not to stumble. Chances were they’d hear him, and they were armed. No, his best option was to stay where he was and hope they missed him. As if to prove him wrong the torch beams began to move closer, fanning left and right as they did. Sam cursed, knowing it was too late to change his mind now. Seconds later bright light was shining into his eyes, making him squint.

  “Get up, Barrick,” said Deep Throat.

  Sam made to get up. Whatever they had in store for him wouldn’t be good, but it beat lying in the wet grass until he was too cold to care. But before he’d gotten his stiff body off the ground pain flared in his ribs, making him gasp. The son of a bitch had kicked him with what felt like steel-toe-capped boots, making him think hypothermia wasn’t so bad after all.

  “I said get up.” Deep Throat’s voice told Sam he wasn’t going to ask again.

  Sam lay back on the ground limp. The muscles in his legs were painfully stiff, and he was feeling overwhelmed by this whole nightmare. He wondered if it might all go away if he stayed where he was.

  Fast-Talker said something Sam didn’t catch, then Deep Throat cut in.

  “Keep to English, you idiot.”

  Pain shot through Sam’s side again, and this time a rib crunched. As Sam twisted trying to move away from the next kick, strong hands hooked under his arms and hauled him upright, and set him on his feet. The sudden movement sent spasms of pain through his chest, making him dry retch. So he was only vaguely aware of the first set of hands releasing him and another grabbing his shoulders from behind. He hung limp, his chin on his chest, taking shallow breaths to protect his damaged ribs. His instinct told him to let his captors think he was badly hurt, so they would relax their guard. The way he was feeling that wouldn’t be hard.

  Looking down Sam saw four trouser legs, and two pairs of shiny black shoes in the torchlight. He felt hot breath on his neck from the goon holding him up. That made three. Sam kept his eyes on the ground. Right now he was in no state to fight off three armed and probably professionally trained goons. He’d act submissive until he was.

  “I suppose you think you’re smart, lying to us all these years?”

  Sam didn’t respond. But he knew his silence would have a price.

  He braced himself for the first punch, but instead a spade-like hand grabbed his chin and lifted his head up. Deep Throat was a Chinese man in his mid-forties with a squat black-eyed face. Right now it was lit from below by his torch, making him look like a Halloween ghoul. Before Sam could examine him any more Deep Throat shifted his hand forward until his thumb and index finger pressed into Sam’s temporomandibular joints and squeezed. Sam gasped as pain arced through his head. The tips of Deep Throat’s thumbs ground onto Sam’s facial nerves. His fingers felt as strong as a professional rock climber’s – like they could prise bricks apart. Panic rose inside Sam, but he pushed it down. Losing control wouldn’t help him now. His life could depend on the actions he took in the next few seconds, and he needed a clear mind. But
it was difficult with bolts of electricity shooting up his head.

  Keeping the pressure on, Deep Throat leaned toward Sam. Up close Sam could see Deep Throat’s face in more detail. His cheeks were covered in acne scars. He had an extremely wide nose, and a small cruel mouth, the corner of which was currently turned up in a snarling smile.

  “You almost got away with it, Barrick. Almost but not quite,” he whispered, grinding down on Sam’s jaw with his thumb and index finger.

  Sam said nothing. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to. His attention was taken up dealing with the agony Deep Throat’s finger and thumb were inflicting on him. In an effort to distract himself from the excruciating pain in his head Sam had put all his attention on a particularly ugly acne scar on Deep Throat’s cheek. But it wasn’t working.

  Deep Throat grunted impatiently, shifted his thumb back about an inch, into the soft tissue below Sam’s left ear, and then pressed. Sam gasped. Searing pain flared up his head and down his body. It felt like his head was wired to the mains. Deep Throat must have found the cervical plexus, a big and very important bundle of nerves in the neck. Pressing on them could cause agony or temporary paralysis. Sam didn’t know how he knew this and not his home address or date of birth, but he did. He screamed. There was no way he couldn’t. After a couple of seconds Deep Throat let off the pressure but didn’t release it.

  Suddenly Sam realized this had happened many times before. He recognized the feeling of Deep Throat’s hand on his jaw. He knew the son of a bitch.

  “Did you think we were fools?” Deep Throat shouted in Sam’s face, flecks of spittle hitting his cheek.

  Sam stared at him through pain-glazed eyes. His body had spasmed after Deep Throat pressed on his cervical plexus, then gone slack when the pain had eased a little. He didn’t need to try to appear weak now; Deep Throat’s rock-hard fingers had taken what little strength he had left. But his mind was still working. He was trying to remember who Deep Throat was, and what he wanted from Sam. Before he got far Deep Throat slapped his cheek, then grabbed his jaw again.