The Night Bus
Despite all the warnings and the moral quagmires, no one did anything to stop the experiments. Not until it was too late. Or did anything about the underground labs and factories. The leather manacles, the wooden operating tables (a curious though not inappropriate throwback to the days of the back-street butcher). Or the mouth gags. I never understood the reason for the gags, for none of us could scream. We had all been genetically altered to deprive us of the merest release, the slightest reprieve. No voice to howl with.
The house of pain. H.G. described it so well in his tale of Moreau's madness, on that tropical island somewhere east of the equator, beyond the reach of any compass, moral or otherwise. The realm of the rogue vivisector, set in a heart of darkness that not even Conrad could equal for its wanton depravity. History written ahead of its time. A warning that went unheeded.
Another mystery: why they allowed us the agony of consciousness at all. The Strangeloves with their clipboards and relentless, probing curiosity. Perhaps we in turn were a mystery to them.
Yet if I am an enigma, I am easily solved. The riddle undone by a handful of questions.
Why are the fields and the meadows, and now the killing sheds, all empty? Where have all the creatures gone? And what happens when there is no food left on the supermarket shelves? The government’s answer was to boil primate meat and not just any primate meat. Gourmet tastes had to be satisfied in a world that had forgotten what it was to be hungry. And a clone is only a clone after all. Just a copy. As disposable as a conscience.
My captors grew careless and my cell grew empty. A manhunt is underway. Sirens and torchlights and helicopters in the sky. But how can it succeed when, sitting at the back of the bus, I look like everyone else? Just another passenger on the night coach.
If you spot me as the bus rolls along your street, a neon shadow in the rain, do not ask my name, for I cannot reply. Reflected in my gaze I can only give you back the answer you already have.
For I am you.
Extract from the short story collection The Last Aviator
