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The Old Brand-New: Lena lives in a lonely mansion, but one snowy night, a vengeful clone of herself comes to make her pay for the life she never got to live.

 

Chapter 4

“Bruised fruit is still fruit.”

Blind.

Everything was white. His eyes burned. Fire in his pupils, ice in his gut. A vein pulsed on his forehead, but he could hardly feel it over the sweat.

Not even a second had passed.

The light glared so bright that even with his eyes clenched, it burrowed into him. It was like someone had poured sand into his eyes. He was screaming, wasn’t he? He couldn’t tell. The thought occurred to him that he might die. Yes, it sounded correct, but he couldn’t seem to grasp the thought. He probed it. Poked around to see how it moved when he shook it one way or another. But the barrier between knowing and understanding was iron.

 After that first second, the light faded. But only enough for his eyes to stop burning. There were five suns in the sky. No. Not five. One sun. Four Others. Four Things that had no right to hang there, erupting their fury in brilliant white light.

Sight abandoned him. Only the vaguest sense of shape remained. Within another second the Other Suns, the Things, had drawn from white to orange. With every moment, Dan saw more. The bay was on fire. Everything was on fire.

Though the blast hadn’t yet reached him, he could only hear a dull ringing. But he soon noticed the strange pathman yelling at him, shaking him. The man pointed to the metal door, tears and bloodshot veins in his eyes. It took Dan another second to understand. But he got it when the trees below the mountain started to bend. With that, they sprinted to the door.

Dan wrenched at the handle. It didn’t budge. He jerked it, but no matter what, it made no difference. Locked? No, stuck. He tore at it again and again, furious. The longer he stayed outside, the hotter it got—the air stung at his flesh, lapped at the moisture in his eyes. The other man then joined Dan at the handle and propped his legs on the wall. Two tugs—ten. Even with their combined strength, the door opened on its own time. It cracked just enough for them to fit.

Dan squeezed into the tunnel. The other man slipped through and wrenched it shut.

A moment later, the door rattled. The room creaked. Dust sprouted from the walls. Lights flickered, and a great roar rang through the concrete. Dan trembled as the room heated up slightly.

And then, everything went quiet.

With twitching hands, Dan took a step forward. He took another step, quivering, grasping at his own neck. The air was stale. It burnt his throat—he couldn’t breathe. He slunk off to the nearest corner. His back slid back against the cold wall and he crumpled to the floor. Without a word, he shut eyes so tight it felt like they’d pop. But he kept them tight anyway. The light from those four things still scraped at them. A great purple blob formed in his vision—one he could still see even behind his eyelids. Every few minutes, a whimper escaped his lips. But he stayed silent. Tight in a ball as his heart beat out of rhythm. He couldn’t feel his arms. Everything else hurt—he would have screamed again, but he couldn’t pull the air from his lungs. And yet, though he thought he might drop dead, he soon realized he wasn’t even singed.

With quivering breath, he opened his eyes. Flickering blue light from wall-mounted fluorescent lamps streaked across the thin concrete tunnel. They lit the scrapes and scratches on the walls as the tunnel curved to the left, rounding off so Dan couldn’t see the end. The last thing he could make out in the distance was a bit of spray-paint that pointed to a low spot on the floor. Above it was some text that said, “piss here.” All that, and it smelled of copper, asphalt, and the rot of dead rats. His fingers went cold.

Dan blinked. Without a second thought, he’d locked himself in a grey mausoleum. And no one would find him ever again. He sputtered a few syllables. The walls threw them back at him.

Charlie had gone to Glasdale. Just south of the Mits border—in a big city, no less. Dead. Ted had a basement shelter. Laughable. Dead. Karla lived near the bay. Dead. Mother—oh, she’d be alright. Sitting in her little bunker cackling to herself. He could almost hear her now. Shrill and mocking, her laugh would echo as wrinkles ran circles across her face. He grabbed his elbows and squeezed.

Though the big purple spot had cleared, four smaller spots filled the void behind his eyelids. Minutes passed, but he still saw them. He hugged his legs tighter against his chest.

His pills.

His fucking pills. They were still in his bathroom. He’d taken them every single day for ten years straight, never missing a single dose, and now they were gone. Oh, God, they were gone! Where was he supposed to find Olanzapine in a goddamn tunnel? No—this was too much; this was too fucking much for him. What was he going to do? His whole life had fallen apart before he got those pills, they held him together. No, no, no—it couldn’t happen again. It just couldn’t.

But then, it might not be that bad. Right? The doctor had even talked about letting him off eventually, so maybe it wouldn’t be so scary this time. After all, it had been a long time since he’d dealt with the worst of it. Yes—he’d be fine. He had to be fine. It was going to be okay.

Quietly, Dan eyed his new companion. That odd, handsome man hadn’t taken a step from the door. He was stiff, his dark skin as still as stone—as if someone had pumped him full of concrete. Coughing, the man fell to his knees. With a sigh, Dan stared at the nearest wall lamp. Perhaps, if he looked long enough, he’d burn a new spot into his retina. It wouldn’t take the others away, but it might change it. Four was such an ugly number. He could make it five. Ease it out a bit. But the light didn’t shine bright enough. It lit just enough so he could see—no more than that.

After a long while, the other man met Dan’s gaze. Dark wrinkles piled under the man’s eyes—seeing that, Dan glanced at his watch.

It was eleven-thirty in the morning. Two hours had passed. Thinking back on it, he couldn’t decide if it had taken an instant or an age.

“Andrew,” The man said in a dull whisper. “Phillips. That’s my last—you know how names work.” Andrew wrinkled his nose and closed his eyes. “It’s Andrew Phillips.”

“Dan Harrison.”

Andrew gave him a hint of a smile, but the tunnel stayed silent, except for a steady drip from one of the lights. Their breaths grew shallow as time chilled the room.