The atom between us, p.1
The Atom Between Us, page 1
Copyright © 2025 by Natasha Wingfield
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to real events, people, or places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons; living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book contains mature and potentially triggering content, including: Graphic violence and descriptions of physical injury, Murder and depictions of death, Adult themes related to trauma, survival, and psychological manipulation, Strong language throughout, Depictions of attempted sexual assault, Explicit sexual content (consensual) Power imbalances and morally grey character dynamics.
Reader discretion is advised.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Epilogue
Authors Notes
For those the world tried to erase—who were rewritten, controlled, broken… and still remembered how to love.
Diana
There’s a certain threshold where pain becomes so pervasive that the body stops labeling it as pain and instead catalogs it as simple existence. The cold underneath me is not an adversary, it’s a surface. The ache in my spine, the pins-and-needles in my left leg, the throbbing behind my right eye—these are less like symptoms and more like coordinates, mapping my body against a geography I’m supposed to know but don’t.
I am awake, which is apparently an improvement over whatever I was doing before. I’d call it sleep if I remembered the word for sleep, but the vocabulary only emerges after a lag, as if my brain is buffering its own glossary.
I open my eyes. There’s no moment of blinding white; just a slow ascent through dim. The overhead lighting is anemic, bulbs fighting to illuminate metal walls stained with a filmy residue. My tongue tastes copper, like pennies dissolved in spit. I try to sit up and discover that my left arm obeys, but my right shoulder grinds with an audible pop.
The noise echoes off the concrete, tripling back to me. I grit my teeth and brace myself on an elbow, feeling grit and a film of oil coating the floor. There’s a headache, but it’s the kind that clings to the inside of the skull rather than pounding it. This feels diagnostic, but the labels aren’t there yet.
I blink. The world blurs, then sharpens. Shadows cross the room like sundials on fast-forward, cast by fluorescent tubes flickering in staccato. A Geiger counter ticks somewhere behind me—steady, not panicked—just enough to become the room’s pulse. I inhale, and the air is thick and tastes wrong. Recycled, over-filtered. There’s an aftertaste of something medicinal and something decayed.
I am in a bunker, though the word feels retrofitted after the fact. My brain is a sieve, but the facts that pass through are weighted with certainty. Bunker. Lab. Something with research. The metal tables along the wall are set with neatly arranged instruments—beakers, pipettes, a battered centrifuge with its door ajar. There are petri dishes, some cracked and leaking a viscous amber fluid, and test tubes in a rack labeled with numbers but no names. I recognize all of them. The shapes, the uses. My fingers twitch for a pipette as if I’ve never not held one.
I try to stand. My knees lock and almost buckle, but after a second I calibrate. Height: Five foot five, if the scale of the tables is any clue. Weight: The right amount for my bones, a little less than optimal, maybe. Hands: Steady, long-fingered, with a constellation of small scars over the knuckles. There’s a tattoo on my wrist, a patchwork hexagon, blue-black, flaked at the edges. The sight of it makes my head lurch, as if something important is attached to the ink, but the thought dissolves before it forms.
I pat myself down: jumpsuit, stained and stiff at the cuffs, a name patch above the heart that’s unreadable under a smudge of—blood? I rub at it, scraping off the dry scab, but the name won’t resolve. My own name should be in there somewhere. The notion that I’ve forgotten it is both embarrassing and terrifying, but there’s a professional detachment that clicks into place, like my mind is triaging its own deficits before it allows panic to bloom. I go with it.
There is no sound beyond my own breathing, the slow trickle of the Geiger counter, and the mechanical whine of something spinning up and down in the next room. I sidestep the metal cot on the floor, noting the depression in the mattress, the sheaf of loose wires under the frame. There’s a scent here, not quite human—cleaner, chemical, like formaldehyde and ozone on a warm day. I inhale again. The air is different in here, as if this space is hermetically sealed off from whatever world exists beyond the bulkhead.
The door is closed. There’s no handle, just a flat steel slab and a set of numeric buttons inset at shoulder height. Below the pad is a palm reader, scratched to near opacity. I run my thumb along the buttons and feel a tactile familiarity, but the code that comes to mind is all wrong. I input four different sets—birthdays, prime numbers, chemical constants. The panel stays inert, the red “denied” LED popping with every failure.
I turn to the workbenches. The equipment is old but functional, the surfaces scored and pitted with use. A microscope, lens cracked but still attached, sits atop a stack of printouts. I rifle through them, eyes scanning for the shape of language I recognize. The pages are covered in notes, handwriting dense and surgical, numbers arranged in tight columns with notations in the margins: “RadShield v7.3,” “Matrix recalibration,” “Unexpected decay at 1.34 mSv/h.”
The scientific part of my brain switches on, running in parallel to the parts still stuck on panic. The data is all radiation, containment, shielding, decay rates. A timeline of failure and incremental progress, like someone had been racing to perfect a technology and ran out of time.
Under the microscope, a slide waits. The smear on the glass is dry, but I rehydrate it with a drop from the nearest pipette and peer through the lens. My hands move with expert economy. The slide resolves into a grid of cells, some distended, some obliterated by blackened halos of cytoplasmic rot.
I recognize acute radiation syndrome in the pattern before the word “syndrome” even floats up to conscious level. I whisper it to myself. “Acute radiation syndrome.” My voice sounds raw, as if I haven’t used it in days, but it’s undeniably mine. The cells are dying, the experiment failed. There’s a margin note in my own hand—my own, I can feel it in the scrawl—”Try cobalt buffer, double dose.” The experiment is dated six days ago.
I look for clocks, but there are none. Only the tick of the Geiger counter to mark time. The sensation of being observed makes the back of my neck itch, but there’s nothing else alive in here. Unless you count the cultures, and most of those are halfway to necrosis.
I move to the far end of the lab, passing a bank of dead monitors. The largest one has been smashed, the plastic screen concave, spiderwebbed with impact lines. Beyond it, tucked into the wall behind a louvered vent, is a safe. The kind with a digital lock and a heavy, reinforced door. I run my hand over the keypad. The surface is cool, dustless. Someone has been using it recently.
The compulsion to open it is overwhelming. I don’t know why, but the idea that the answer to everything—my name, the purpose of the experiment, maybe even an exit—lies behind that door is as clear as the afterimage on my retina when I blink too hard. I try the same codes I used on the door, plus some variations: the digits from the RadShield printouts, the date from the experiment, the first six digits of pi. Nothing. The safe remains stoically shut, and the red LED flashes with increasing irritation.
I dig my nails into my palm and hiss through my teeth. “Damn it.” The anger is the first emotion that feels completely authentic, not borrowed from some forgotten personality. I lean against the safe, feeling the vibrations of my own heart through the metal. If I listen closely, I ca
I catalog the possibilities, rank them by likelihood, and discard the ones that would require outside help. I take a slow lap around the room, inventorying every object in sight. A row of vials, each labeled with a string of alphanumeric codes, sits in a metal tray. Some have sediment congealed at the bottom.
There’s a box of surgical gloves—most missing, the remaining ones curled and yellowed. A first-aid kit, opened and stripped of everything but a roll of gauze and a single, unopened ampoule of adrenaline. I pocket the ampoule instinctively, though I have no immediate plan for its use.
A wall-mounted phone dangles from its cradle, the wire snipped. I press the receiver to my ear anyway; the urge to find another voice, even one automated, is overpowering. There’s only dead silence. I replace it with an odd reverence, then notice the faintest residue of black marker at the base of the unit: “Property of Clarke.” The name means nothing. I repeat it anyway, quietly. “Clarke.” It doesn’t fit, not as a first name or a last. It’s an artifact, a leftover from before.
I run my hand along the edge of the main lab table. There’s a small, circular indentation there, like a button or a release. I push it, and the surface pops up an inch, revealing a concealed drawer underneath. Inside is a spiral notebook, cover scuffed and corners folded. The pages inside are dense with formulas, dates, and sketches—cross-sections of shielding, molecular diagrams, a few crude maps of what might be the bunker itself.
The margins are filled with personal annotations: “Don’t trust the automated logs,” “Check battery levels in secondary,” “Why does it always smell like vanilla in the morning?” This last note is underlined twice, as if it were a crucial clue.
The pages toward the back are torn out. Someone was methodical about it, too—each tear follows the spiral perfectly, leaving no stray fibers. Whatever was there, I decided it needed to be removed. I flip the notebook over in my hands, find nothing in the cover, nothing written in invisible ink. But on the last intact page, there’s a four-digit number circled three times: 0413.
I walk back to the safe. My hands tremble, not from fear, but from anticipation—like the kinetic charge before a chemical reaction. I punch in the digits. The keypad hums, a green light flickers. But instead of releasing, there’s a grinding sound and the whole unit goes dead. I slap my palm against the cold surface. “You bastard.”
For a moment, the room seems to shrink, the walls pulling closer, the air recirculating a little faster. I imagine the outside world, what shape it might have taken in the time I’ve been asleep or drugged or whatever it is that brought me here. My memory is a black box, the data inside irretrievable without the right tools. I suspect that I am, in some ways, the tool.
I sit on the cot, notebook balanced on my knees, scanning the formulas for meaning that refuses to surface. I close my eyes and see flickers of light, blue and white, and a brief afterimage of someone’s face—a woman, maybe, hair tied back, wearing the same jumpsuit as me.
I reach for the memory and it vanishes, replaced by the persistent metallic taste. My hands want to work, to fix, to problem-solve, but all I can do is wait for the next fragment to break loose from wherever I’ve hidden it.
I stare at the safe, willing it to open, and know that tomorrow I’ll try again. I have all the time in the world. I have nothing but time. There’s a thing that happens in isolation, where each sense grows claws. Sound, for example, sharpens until even the drip of water somewhere three rooms away is enough to make you want to punch through concrete just to quiet it. The bunker is a crypt of echoes. Every step I take sets off a staccato of metal on stone; my footfalls shadow me like an unwanted sibling.
The Geiger counter on the main console is still ticking, but now I swear it’s louder. Or maybe I’m just letting it have more of my attention, now that the immediate threat of waking up dead has receded into a background murmur. The counter pulses steadily, an electronic heartbeat. I can’t remember when I learned to read the difference between casual background and acute, but I don’t need to. I know it the way I know how to pull a pipette or crack a code: at the level of animal reflex.
There’s no clock, but I can guess at time from the ache in my stomach, the way the muscles behind my knees feel tight and unfinished. Hunger, but not enough to distract. I tell myself it’s time to leave the room, to see if the rest of the bunker will yield anything new, but I hesitate at the threshold. There’s something in the air. The taste of ozone is stronger here—maybe a fresh burst from the air scrubbers, maybe a chemical spill I haven’t found yet. Either way, it reads as a warning.
I step out, boot soles skidding a little on the painted concrete. The hall beyond is no wider than my outstretched arms. The walls are stenciled every meter with the same radiation warning: three black triangles, so overused that in some spots the paint is more chip than pigment. Some symbols are faded, others so new the edges of the stencil are still clean. It gives the whole space a palimpsest feeling, as if it’s been repurposed so often that nobody can remember its original intent.
The corridor splits. To the left, a reinforced blast door with a viewing slit, the glass clouded over with something like fungal growth. To the right, a softer light, the glow of something living. I follow the light, drawn as much by curiosity as by the subsonic increase in Geiger ticks.
The room at the end of the hallway is both familiar and not. Another lab, but this one is more chaotic. Metal chairs overturned, a rack of pipettes scattered across the floor like spilled pencils. On the far side, a bank of refrigerators hums at low volume, the doors taped shut with strips of what looks like surgical tape and the words “DO NOT OPEN - SAMPLE INTEGRITY CRITICAL” scrawled on top in a hand I can almost recognize as my own.
I take an inventory. There’s a row of petri dishes, some still viable, agar glowing faintly blue under the UV hood. The cultures here are different. Not your standard E. coli, but something more aggressive. The growth pattern is radial, but with outbursts—like fireworks frozen mid-explosion.
I can’t stop myself: I lift the hood, slide out a dish, and prod it with the end of a sterilized loop. The colony recoils. For a split second I see motility—active, not just growing but moving. I drop the loop in the flame of a nearby Bunsen and watch it curl black. The word that comes to mind is “engineered.” The realization snaps me back: I’ve done this before. I have created these cultures, somewhere in the fog of my lost history.
There’s a whiteboard bolted to the wall, smeared with equations, chemical names, and half-erased diagrams. The lower third is a mess of arrows and question marks, all converging on a single phrase, underlined so hard the dry-erase marker bled through: “RadShield Matrix - Adaptive Response?” I run my hand over the words, smearing the blue into a bruise. It means nothing, except that it means everything. I can feel the question in my chest, as if my ribcage has become a cage for uncertainty.
I root through the drawers. The first is empty except for a coil of duct tape and a single hypodermic needle, still in the package. The second is stuffed with sticky notes, most blank, but one with a sequence of numbers. I turn it over and see, in a tiny, left-leaning script: “If found, try 1628.” It could be a code, or it could be a joke I once played on myself. I tuck it into my pocket anyway.
On the counter, next to the sink, is a line of sample tubes. Some are half-filled with sludge, others with clear liquid that refracts the light into rainbow smears. The labels are all dates, none more recent than three weeks ago. In the sink, a congealed clot of something brown-black, with a crust like old jam. I poke it with the end of a spatula and it gives way with a wet pop. The stench is immediate: rot and ammonia, the smell of a living thing outliving its usefulness.
There’s a freezer in the corner, a digital readout showing -40°C. The handle is crusted with frost, but it opens when I pull. Inside, rows of cryotubes, each labeled with a cryptic sequence—maybe subject numbers, maybe just someone’s attempt at future-proofing their own confusion. One tube is missing from its slot, a space like a lost tooth in a perfect row. This detail makes my heart double its pace, though I don’t know why. Did I take it? Did someone else?
