Read Dark Eden for Free Online Page B

every twenty feet, and I backed away from the door.
    Stepping quietly toward my hiding place, it occurred to me that I might be able to get across on my own. Maybe if I waited until everyone was asleep I could find out what was really going on without anyone knowing.
    Mrs. Goring’s empty cart was clamoring down the runway as I reentered the bomb shelter and dialed down the light. Darkness would have engulfed me if not for the glow of the monitor screen, which I had neglected to turn off. I went to push the black OFF button, just to be extra careful, and that’s when I saw it on the monitor screen.
    Ben Dugan was sitting in the chair.
     
    I tried to read Ben’s lips, but it was no use. Whatever he was saying didn’t register on my end. There were pauses, as if he was trying to decide if he should keep going or not. I couldn’t stand the silence anymore and took out my Recorder, dialed in BEN DUGAN , and hit PLAY . The funny thing was, watching his face on the screen and hearing his voice in my head almost felt real, like the two belonged together. The first voice in my head was Dr. Stevens’s.
     
    When was the first time you felt this way? Go back as far as you can remember.
    I don’t know. I forget.
    What did you forget?
    That’s an unanswerable question. I don’t remember what I forgot.
    Right, but there’s a clue here, you see? There are things you don’t want to remember, so you don’t. When you think of these things—the events you don’t want recorded in your memory—what are they? What is it about them that make you afraid?
    I don’t like dirt.
    Okay. That’s a start. So, if you’re digging around in the dirt, that bothers you?
    I wouldn’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever done that.
    Oh, but you have, Ben. Trust me, you have done this. And you’re still alive.
    I don’t remember.
    What is it about dirt that bothers you so?
    Is there any water in here?
    No, there’s no water. Not until you tell me. We’ve been at this a long time. You have to tell me, Ben. What is it about dirt that bothers you so?
    I don’t remember.
    You do remember.
    I don’t.
    The session dissolved into a similar pattern after that: You do remember ; No, I don’t ; Where’s the water? I’d heard it a few times, so I knew. I unwrapped a Clif Bar and popped the earbuds out of my ears.
    Ben Dugan leaned down and picked up something off the floor where I couldn’t see it. He got up off the chair, holding something in his hand.
    “What’s he doing now?” I wondered, biting a corner off the chewy bar as if I was watching a movie.
    He was facing away from the camera, staring at the wall, gripping some sort of blunt tool. Whatever he held was dripping stringy lines of goo on the floor at his feet. He walked up to the red stenciled numbers and did something I couldn’t see.
    “What are you doing, Ben Dugan?” I said.
    He turned and dropped the tool he’d used on the floor in front of the camera, and then he was gone. So was the number 1. It was a wide paintbrush he’d held, slopped with paint.
    The 1 had been replaced by a blue blotch, dripping down the wall like cobalt blood.
    What did it mean, this blotting out of the number? The whole event had the feeling of a zombie choosing to erase himself from existence.
    There, I’ve marked out my number.
    Now I’m ready to face the end.
     
    I switched to M , the main room, and saw that everyone else was sitting on couches and chairs in a far corner. Ben approached, and everyone stood, gathering around him. They appeared to be asking him questions, but it was impossible to know for sure.
    “My kingdom for an audio feed,” I complained.
    Ben started to back away from the rest of the group, and then I saw him for the first time. It had to be the person who ran this place, a tall, dark figure at the edge of the screen, barely visible. The figure moved toward Ben, touching him on the shoulder and leading him away. He was speaking to Ben, whispering in his ear: a private