Mortal - Chapter 1

    “The world is changing. I can feel it.”

The president’s voice reverberates through the grand and populous hall, and it rattles through the old television that we watch from.

Energetic applause sounds after. I glance towards a ghoulish-looking man, whose name and number fails me, slapping his hands together in slow, sarcastic claps.

            The president’s witty, disgusting, crooked smile is brought on by the crowd’s praise. The picture on the TV stutters, causing a temporary deformation of the man’s clean-shaven face.

            “We did not ask for this problem. We do not deserve this problem. But we will solve this problem!”

            The cheers and applause get louder—they sound like the buzzing of fervent flies. My skin crawls and I scratch my hand warily. My stomach twists with every second passing.

            The camera shifts interest and watches the audience: Congress, the Court, the influential. I grit my teeth as my hand squeezes the cold metal table I sit beside.

            I despise them all.

            But I envy every one of them. They are there. And well, we’re here. 

            Their leader raises a finger as a polite silencer. “Scientists are working hard on the problem. They are working with the government under the Department of Health and Human Services, under the coined name of Project Eden.

            “Congress, the Court, Americans, the world, we are getting results, and we will not stop until there is once again, peace in this world, and the problem vanquished!”

            I shift uneasily in my seat, my hands clammy. When would it end? The program started almost fifteen years ago, and still no results. And they won’t stop until they get them.

            “I ask you not to give up hope. I ask myself to not give up hope. I ask myself and all of you to remain strong in your resolve and your trust that we will end this!”

            The camera focuses on the man’s face, a smile, a sinister smile, upon his lips that seems to be directed at us. I flinch and look to Abel. He is old, too old. Been here since the beginning of Project Eden, and could never retire, could never leave in peace. They will not let him.

            “Let me explain the program,” the President begins again, once the crowd has died down. If only.

            I look away, not wanting to know the sweetened lies the man will tell the world, not wanting to see the curl of his lip in that infuriating, hopeful grin.

            “We have—“

            “Turn this shit off,” a man with a mutilated face, John, mutters. He sits in a chair backwards, watching the TV with disdainful, yellow eyes. Pus oozes from welts engraved in his craggily skin.

            No one moves. Their eyes still glued to the TV as if the lies the President was telling were true, and that this is just a dream.

            “There are volunteers, about a dozen or so, who—“

            “I said turn it off!” John shouts, slamming his fists down on the back rail of the chair.

            Paul jumps up, his eyes bulging and blood-shot, as he stumbles for the television, fingering the several different buttons of the volume and channels until his trembling fingers meet home and the screen goes black. He slides to the concrete floor, panting, sweat trickling down from his matted hair. Paul is only a few years older than me. Not that it matters.

            Not that anything matters anymore.

            “Maybe…maybe they’ll change it, like to what he is saying…” a small stubby man suggests, hopeful. Odd, I think, considering he no longer has arms or legs.

            “Yeah, sure, Mose,” John rolls his eyes. “Eden’s been around for fifteen years, and this is the first time he’s brought it up.”

            I grimace and lower my head, scrunching my eyes shut. Abel rests a tender hand on my shoulder.

            “You’re young, Garrett. Maybe it will be over soon, before…” his voice trails, and I only feel worse.

            The problem. That is my life, what all two hundred of our lives are dedicated to, no, sacrificed to. Sacrificed to a disgusting ritual called hope.

            But he’s right—I am young, only seventeen. Though I suppose all of us are young, even Abel who looks ancient from his pooling skin and somber eyes. We will always be young, because of the problem. The problem that was a blessing at first, albeit deceitful. A blessing far worse than anyone could imagine.

            No one can die.

            And we’re the world’s lab rats.