. there it was again.
That odour.
Disinfectant.
The one which he had reported to Heinmein earlier . . . the one which his father had forced him to report to Heinmein.
Mitts thought back to how Heinmein had administered the dose. All things considered, he had really been quite caring. Perhaps Heinmein wasn’t as bad as he’d thought.
Maybe, because Mitts was dying, their relationship had thawed.
If Mitts cropped up in the doorway of Heinmein’s office, maybe Heinmein would acknowledge him.
Ask him what the matter was.
Just because Mitts was dying, didn’t mean he could forget about protocol.
Protocol was what had kept his family alive thus far.
But what would Heinmein do?
Even if—and that was a big if—Heinmein deigned to come and check out Mitts’s bedroom, it would only be for him to bring along that device of his, the one which emitted the electronic groans and whirrs .
Heinmein would screw up his eyes, staring at the dial. And then, a few minutes later, he would trudge on out of Mitts’s bedroom, leaving Mitts none the wiser.
Not even bothering to tell him whether or not there was anything to be worried about.
Mitts turned his attention up toward the ventilation hatch.
He glanced down at his wristwatch.
Saw that it was a few minutes past half four in the morning.
His father would be knocked out— comatose .
He had been up caring for Mitts for so long. He wouldn’t stir until the lighting system gently woke him. Mitts had until sometime between seven and seven thirty.
So Mitts had the time, and, he believed, the strength, to investigate for himself.
He had to take his chance now. He would be dead next week.
Mitts turned his attention to the plastic container on the other side of the room. He looked to his father’s book, its pages all splayed.
Then he glanced to the torch.
He snatched it up. Slipped it into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms.
Then he dragged the plastic container across the floor.
Left it beneath the ventilation hatch.
He stood back from his work, thought about what he was doing.
Wondered if it was the right thing.
But then, what was he meant to do now?
There was nobody to tell him either way.
Right or wrong.
Mitts cracked open the lid of the plastic container.
He dug about inside.
He cast aside clothing, books, other assorted oddities he had dragged along with him to the Compound. He located the screwdrivers.
They were where he’d left them.
Stuffed into a pair of socks.
The fact that they were still there, in his container, suggested that no one had uncovered them.
Or, at least, nobody had thought there was anything untoward about him having them.
Mitts leaped up onto the plastic container, feeling invigorated now.
As if his whole body might shudder from the shock of the new energy burning through him.
Flipping on the torch and then laying it at his feet, Mitts reached up, undid the loosened screws from the ventilation hatch, one by one. He dropped each, in succession, onto his camp bed.
Taking extreme care, Mitts peeled back the ventilation hatch itself.
He laid it down on the laminate flooring, just beside the plastic container.
It would be easy to find when he returned.
That done, Mitts gazed about his bedroom, half expecting to see either his father, or mother, or Heinmein standing in the doorway.
But nobody was there.
He was all alone.
In the dark.
* * *
Mitts lay on his front. He could feel the cool metal, even through his fleecy top, and through his pyjama bottoms.
As he crawled his way along the air vent, he could hear his hands and feet making muted booms against the metal.
It smelled strongly of ammonium—what Mitts had learned was the smell of ammonium.
It caught at the back of his throat, leaving an almost fishy taste.
But even the smell of ammonium was overwhelmed by the odour of disinfectant now.
Mitts was still surprised that he had managed to haul himself up into the air vent.
When he had seized hold of the tube,
That odour.
Disinfectant.
The one which he had reported to Heinmein earlier . . . the one which his father had forced him to report to Heinmein.
Mitts thought back to how Heinmein had administered the dose. All things considered, he had really been quite caring. Perhaps Heinmein wasn’t as bad as he’d thought.
Maybe, because Mitts was dying, their relationship had thawed.
If Mitts cropped up in the doorway of Heinmein’s office, maybe Heinmein would acknowledge him.
Ask him what the matter was.
Just because Mitts was dying, didn’t mean he could forget about protocol.
Protocol was what had kept his family alive thus far.
But what would Heinmein do?
Even if—and that was a big if—Heinmein deigned to come and check out Mitts’s bedroom, it would only be for him to bring along that device of his, the one which emitted the electronic groans and whirrs .
Heinmein would screw up his eyes, staring at the dial. And then, a few minutes later, he would trudge on out of Mitts’s bedroom, leaving Mitts none the wiser.
Not even bothering to tell him whether or not there was anything to be worried about.
Mitts turned his attention up toward the ventilation hatch.
He glanced down at his wristwatch.
Saw that it was a few minutes past half four in the morning.
His father would be knocked out— comatose .
He had been up caring for Mitts for so long. He wouldn’t stir until the lighting system gently woke him. Mitts had until sometime between seven and seven thirty.
So Mitts had the time, and, he believed, the strength, to investigate for himself.
He had to take his chance now. He would be dead next week.
Mitts turned his attention to the plastic container on the other side of the room. He looked to his father’s book, its pages all splayed.
Then he glanced to the torch.
He snatched it up. Slipped it into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms.
Then he dragged the plastic container across the floor.
Left it beneath the ventilation hatch.
He stood back from his work, thought about what he was doing.
Wondered if it was the right thing.
But then, what was he meant to do now?
There was nobody to tell him either way.
Right or wrong.
Mitts cracked open the lid of the plastic container.
He dug about inside.
He cast aside clothing, books, other assorted oddities he had dragged along with him to the Compound. He located the screwdrivers.
They were where he’d left them.
Stuffed into a pair of socks.
The fact that they were still there, in his container, suggested that no one had uncovered them.
Or, at least, nobody had thought there was anything untoward about him having them.
Mitts leaped up onto the plastic container, feeling invigorated now.
As if his whole body might shudder from the shock of the new energy burning through him.
Flipping on the torch and then laying it at his feet, Mitts reached up, undid the loosened screws from the ventilation hatch, one by one. He dropped each, in succession, onto his camp bed.
Taking extreme care, Mitts peeled back the ventilation hatch itself.
He laid it down on the laminate flooring, just beside the plastic container.
It would be easy to find when he returned.
That done, Mitts gazed about his bedroom, half expecting to see either his father, or mother, or Heinmein standing in the doorway.
But nobody was there.
He was all alone.
In the dark.
* * *
Mitts lay on his front. He could feel the cool metal, even through his fleecy top, and through his pyjama bottoms.
As he crawled his way along the air vent, he could hear his hands and feet making muted booms against the metal.
It smelled strongly of ammonium—what Mitts had learned was the smell of ammonium.
It caught at the back of his throat, leaving an almost fishy taste.
But even the smell of ammonium was overwhelmed by the odour of disinfectant now.
Mitts was still surprised that he had managed to haul himself up into the air vent.
When he had seized hold of the tube,
Similar Books
