Embedded Files
The land train's massive wheels churned through the mud, each revolution bringing Zasha closer to her uncertain future. She sat wedged between two other clone workers, their bodies radiating heat in the cramped confines of the cargo hold. The air was thick with the acrid scent of sweat and fear, punctuated by the rhythmic clanking of the train's ancient engines.
Zasha's fingers absently traced the identification code tattooed on her forearm: EKB-637, a stark reminder of her artificial origins. Beside her, EKB-112 – Iona – fidgeted restlessly, her knee bouncing with nervous energy.
"What do you think it'll be like?" Iona whispered, her voice barely audible over the rumble of the train.
Zasha shrugged, trying to project a calm she didn't feel. "I've heard stories," she murmured. "They say there are real plants there. Green things that grow from the ground, not just the protein vats we're used to."
Iona's eyes widened, a flicker of wonder breaking through her anxiety. "Like in the old historical neuro downloads? The ones about the world before?"
Zasha nodded, allowing herself a small smile. She'd always been fascinated by those fragments of history, some of them taught in the form of neuro downloads, others passed down in hushed whispers among generations of clones. Stories of a time when the sky was blue, not the sickly grey they knew, when food grew freely under the sun's warm glow. They seemed like impossible fantasies, but a part of her desperately wanted to believe.
The train shuddered to a halt, the sudden silence deafening after weeks of near constant noise. Zasha stood on shaky legs, joining the press of bodies moving towards the exit. She squinted as she stepped out into the grey light, her eyes struggling to adjust after the gloom of the cargo hold.
And there it was. Rising from the muddy plains like monuments to a forgotten age of technological wonder, the agridomes loomed over them. They were immense, massive cylindrical towers of glass and steel that pulsed with an eerie violet glow. Zasha felt a shiver run down her spine as she stared up at this strange new world. The landscape around them was a misty, muddy expanse dotted with strange vegetation, and in the distance, ominous mechanical structures loomed through the haze.
Overseers, their faces obscured by tinted visors, herded the new arrivals towards a squat concrete building at the base of the nearest tower. "Decontamination and orientation," one barked, her voice muffled by the mask. "Move it!"
Inside, they were stripped, scrubbed, and doused with stinging chemicals that made Zasha's eyes water. She was issued a form-fitting grey tank top and shorts, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to her still-damp skin. A barcode identifier was prominently displayed on her chest. Then, they were ushered into a large room filled with rows of narrow bunks.
"Home sweet home," Iona muttered, claiming a lower bunk. Zasha took the one above her, the thin mattress offering little comfort as she sat down.
As night fell outside, the dormitory came alive with nervous chatter. Zasha listened as her fellow workers shared their hopes and fears for the days ahead.
"I heard the work isn't so bad," a girl named Freya said, her voice tinged with forced optimism. "And think of the food we'll be helping to grow. Real vegetables, not just nutrient paste."
"But why all the security?" another clone, Helga, asked. "Those overseers looked ready for war, not farming."
Zasha lay back on her bunk, staring at the stained ceiling. "Maybe it's to protect us," she offered, not believing it even as she said it. "From the mutants in the mud lands."
A heavy silence fell over the room. They all knew the stories of the horrors that roamed the irradiated mud flats beyond the safety of the facilities. The thought that such dangers might be close enough to threaten them here sent a collective shudder through the group.
"Well, I for one am excited," Iona piped up, breaking the tension. "This is our chance to do something meaningful. To help feed people, you know?"
Zasha smiled at her friend's enthusiasm. "You're right," she said. "Who knows? Maybe we'll even get to taste some of what we grow."
As the lights dimmed for the sleep cycle, Zasha found herself filled with a cautious hope. Tomorrow would bring hard work, certainly, but also the possibility of something new. Something green and alive in this drab world.
Morning came too soon, announced by the harsh blare of an alarm. Zasha jerked awake, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. Around her, her fellow workers stirred, their faces etched with a mixture of anticipation and dread.
They were herded into the showers, the water lukewarm and faintly chemical-smelling, then given a breakfast of bland protein porridge. Zasha ate mechanically, her stomach churning with nerves.
And then, finally, it was time to enter the dome.
The airlock hissed open, and Zasha's senses were immediately assaulted. The heat hit her like a physical force, a wet blanket of humidity that clung to her skin and filled her lungs. The air was thick with the scent of earth and growing things, undercut by the sharp tang of chemicals.
But it was the sight that truly overwhelmed her. The interior of the agridome stretched out before her, a vast space enclosed by a curved ceiling crisscrossed with metal beams. Harsh UV lamps hung from above like artificial suns, bathing everything in a purplish glare that made her eyes water. Through her squint, Zasha saw endless rows of raised planting beds stretching out into the distance, filled with lush, green plants.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Iona whispered, her voice filled with awe.
Before Zasha could respond, a harsh voice cut through their wonder. "Enough gawking!" An overseer strode towards them, her shock prod crackling ominously. "You're here to work, not sightsee. You two, you're over there. Move it!"
Zasha and Iona hurried to their assigned area, where they found themselves facing a sea of broad-leafed plants. An older worker, her face lined with exhaustion, showed them the basics – how to check for pests, prune dead leaves, and harvest the ripe produce.
The work was backbreaking, a constant cycle of bending, reaching, and lifting under the merciless glare of the UV lamps. Sweat poured down Zasha's face, stinging her eyes and soaking through her thin clothing. Her hands, unused to such labour, quickly became raw and blistered.
Hours blended together in a haze of heat and repetitive motion. Zasha's world narrowed to the plants in front of her, the ache in her muscles, the burning in her lungs as she breathed in the chemical-laden air.
It was as she straightened up, trying to work out a kink in her back, that she saw it happen. A worker a few rows over – Freya, she realised with a jolt – suddenly crumpled to the ground. Blood trickled from her nose, her face a sickly grey.
Zasha started towards her, but a strong hand gripped her arm. The older worker who had trained them shook her head, her eyes filled with a grim understanding. "Don't," she said softly. "There's nothing you can do."
As Zasha watched helplessly, two overseers descended on Freya's prone form. They lifted her with casual efficiency, dragging her limp body away between the rows of plants. She didn't return.
That night, the dormitory was subdued. The initial excitement had given way to the harsh reality of their situation. Zasha lay on her bunk, every muscle screaming in protest, listening to the muffled sobs of her fellow workers.
"Zasha?" Iona's voice drifted up from the bunk below. "Do you think... Do you think Freya's okay?"
Zasha squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back tears of her own. "I'm sure she's fine," she lied, her voice thick. "Probably just overcome by the heat. They'll have her back with us in no time."
But Freya didn't come back. Nor did Helga, who collapsed two days later, or Skadie, who simply didn't wake up one day. Over the coming months, one by one, their numbers dwindled, each disappearance a stark reminder of their own mortality.
Zasha learned to keep her head down, to focus on the monotonous routine of tending the crops. She watched as Iona's vibrant energy was slowly drained away, her friend's once-bright eyes growing dull with exhaustion.
There was no respite, no end to the cycle. Sleep was a brief, feverish thing, snatched in the short hours between shifts. The constant exposure to chemicals made Zasha's skin itch and her lungs burn. She found herself coughing more and more, a deep, wracking cough that left a metallic taste in her mouth.
Then came the day that Sigrid found the flower.
Zasha was working her way down a row of leafy greens when she heard a soft gasp. She looked up to see Sigrid, a quiet girl she'd occasionally spoken to, cradling something in her dirt-encrusted hands.
"Look," Sigrid breathed, her voice filled with wonder. "Isn't it beautiful?"
Zasha moved closer, her eyes widening as she saw what Sigrid held. It was a flower, small and delicate, its yellow petals a vibrant shock of colour against the endless green. She had never seen anything like it before.
Sigrid lifted the flower to her face, inhaling deeply. For a moment, a smile flickered across her weary features, a brief glimmer of joy in this joyless place.
Then her eyes snapped open, and Zasha saw something in them she'd never seen before. A wildness, a rage that bordered on madness. Sigrid's body convulsed, her limbs jerking violently as she dropped to the ground.
"Sigrid?" Zasha reached for her, fear clawing at her throat. "Sigrid, what's wrong?"
When Sigrid rose, she was no longer the quiet, gentle girl Zasha had known. Her eyes had turned an unnatural milky white, her skin taking on a sickly pallor. Her mouth twisted into a snarl, revealing teeth that seemed suddenly too sharp. She lunged at Zasha with inhuman speed, her fingers curled into claws.
Zasha stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding Sigrid's grasping hands. Around her, chaos erupted. Screams echoed through the dome as Sigrid tore through the crowd, attacking with a strength and ferocity that was terrifying to behold.
Those she managed to bite or scratch soon joined her in her rampage, their bodies contorting as the strange madness took hold. Zasha watched in horror as Iona grappled with one of the infected, and saw the moment her friend's eyes changed as teeth sank into her arm.
"Iona!" Zasha cried, but it was too late. Iona turned towards her, and there was no recognition in those once-familiar eyes.
Zasha ran. Her heart pounded in her ears as she weaved between the rows of plants, the screams and snarls of the infected nipping at her heels. She reached the main doors, only to find them sealed – heavy steel barriers that had slammed down to contain the outbreak.
Panic threatened to overwhelm her as she searched desperately for an escape. Then she spotted it – an air vent, high on the wall. She clambered up a trellis of plants, ignoring the thorns that tore at her skin, and wrenched at the grate covering the vent.
Her fingers slipped on the slick metal, leaving bloody smears, but finally, the grate gave way. Zasha hauled herself into the narrow passage, the screams fading behind her as she crawled through the darkness.
Zasha didn't know how long she had been crawling through the darkness of the air duct. Her knees and palms were raw, leaving smears of blood on the cold metal as she inched forward. The only sounds were her ragged breathing and the distant, muffled echoes of chaos from the dome below.
Suddenly, a sliver of light caught her eye. A small vent opening lay ahead, offering a view into the hellscape she had fled. Zasha approached cautiously, her heart pounding in her chest.
Through the narrow slats, she saw a scene that made her blood run cold. Tove, a quiet girl she had shared meals with, was stumbling through the carnage. Her tank top and shorts were torn and splattered with blood, but she seemed uninfected. Hope blossomed in Zasha's chest for a brief moment.
Then, emerging from the haze of chemical smoke, came a figure in sleek, form-fitting black armour that accentuated her feminine figure. The expressionless helmet concealed her face – a member of the security forces. Tove turned, her face lighting up with relief.
"Please," Zasha heard her beg, the words barely audible through the vent. "I'm not infected. You have to help me."
The security trooper stood motionless for a heartbeat. Then, without hesitation, she raised her rifle. The flash and crack of the shot made Zasha flinch, biting back a scream as Tove crumpled to the ground, lying still in a rapidly expanding pool of blood.
Tears streamed down Zasha's face as she forced herself to keep moving. She couldn't stay here. She had to find a way out, or she'd suffer the same fate.
After what felt like hours of navigating the twisting ductwork, Zasha spotted another opening. This one was larger, and cool air wafted through it. With trembling hands, she pushed against the grate. It gave way with a groan, and she tumbled out into a dimly lit room.
Blinking against the sudden light, Zasha realised she was in some kind of storage area. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with chemical containers and farming equipment. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe she could find a way out from here.
That hope was shattered by a familiar voice, twisted into something feral and wrong.
"Za-sha," it growled.
Zasha spun around to see Iona standing in the doorway. But this wasn't the Iona she knew. Her friend's eyes were wild and milky white, blood smearing her face and hands. At her feet lay the crumpled form of a security trooper, her throat ripped open and gushing blood into a quickly expanding puddle.
"Iona," Zasha breathed, backing away slowly. "It's me. You know me."
But there was no recognition in Iona's eyes, only a primal hunger. She lunged forward with inhuman speed, fingers curled into claws.
Zasha's back hit a shelf, her hand closing around the handle of a spade. She swung it blindly, feeling the sickening impact as it connected with Iona's head.
Iona stumbled but didn't fall. She snarled, a sound no human throat should make, and charged again. Zasha swung the spade once more, putting all her strength behind the blow. There was a wet crack, and Iona dropped.
For a moment, Zasha stood frozen, the bloodied spade still clutched in her shaking hands. She stared at Iona's body, a sob catching in her throat. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
But there was no time for grief. Survival instinct took over, and Zasha's eyes fell on the dead trooper. It was a risk, but it might be her only chance.
With grim determination, she stripped the armour from the corpse and donned it herself. It was slightly too big, the helmet rattling as she moved, but it would have to do. She picked up the trooper's rifle, its weight unfamiliar and terrifying in her hands.
Taking a deep breath, Zasha stepped out of the storage room. The corridors were eerily quiet now, the sounds of fighting having faded away. She moved as quickly as she dared, trying to mimic the purposeful stride of the security squad members she had seen.
Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure it would give her away as she approached the main airlock. Two other troopers stood guard, their blank visors turning towards her as she approached.
"Status report," one barked.
Zasha swallowed hard. "Storage area clear," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "No survivors."
There was a pause that felt like an eternity. Then the trooper nodded. "Proceed to decontamination."
The airlock hissed open, and Zasha stepped through. As it closed behind her, she allowed herself a shuddering breath. She had made it this far, but she knew the real challenge lay ahead. Beyond this airlock was the outside world, a wasteland she had never seen with her own eyes.
As the decontamination cycle began, Zasha closed her eyes. Whatever waited for her out there, it had to be better than the hell she was leaving behind. She would find a way to survive. She had to.
The outer door began to open, and bright light spilled in. Zasha squinted against the glare, her heart racing as she took her first steps into the unknown.
***
The land train's massive wheels churned through the mud, each revolution bringing a new batch of clone workers closer to the agridome. Inside the cargo hold, nervous chatter filled the air as the new arrivals speculated about what awaited them.
A young clone with bright eyes leaned towards her neighbour. "I heard they grow real food there," she whispered excitedly. "Actual plants, can you imagine?"
Her companion nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Maybe we'll even get to taste some of it," she dared to hope.
The train shuddered to a halt, and the doors creaked open. The clones filed out, blinking in the grey daylight as they took in the imposing structure of the agridome. Its violet glow pulsed gently, a beacon of life in the desolate mud lands.
Overseers approached, their faces hidden behind tinted visors. "Line up," one barked. "Decontamination first, then orientation."
As the new arrivals were herded towards a squat concrete building, none of them noticed the lone figure in blood-splattered black armour slipping away from the dome's perimeter. The figure moved with purpose, heading out into the vast unknown of the wasteland.
Inside the agridome, the clones were issued form-fitting grey tank tops and shorts, with barcode identifiers prominently displayed on their chests. "Put these on," an overseer ordered, shoving breathing masks into their uncertain hands. "And grab a wheelbarrow. You've got work to do."
The clones obeyed, their confusion giving way to dawning horror as they spread out into the dome. The ground was a morass of blood and gore, the twisted remains of dead workers scattered everywhere amongst the ruined crops.
As they began the grim task of clearing the carnage, one clone paused. There, amidst the blood and mud, a single spot of colour caught her eye. A flower, miraculously untouched by the chaos that had consumed everything else.
She reached out, drawn by its beauty in this place of death. As her fingers closed around the yellow flower's stem, she lifted her breathing mask, inhaling its sweet scent.
Google Sites
Report abuse