Not giving an inch, Doogan leaned in, his voice scathing. “Do what you must.”
Pomfrey seemed to soften. “Sorry to hear that Keeyla and your son didn’t make the trip back.” His tone more mocking than somber. “It’s too bad. There is too much loss.”
“Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?” He jerked backward.
“Doogan, Doogan.” A goading snicker spilled from Pomfrey’s mouth. “I don’t want to kill you, we need you. My goal is to eradicate disease and create flawless people.” Modifying his tone to sound noble, he added, “A flawless race of humanity to inhabit this land.” All the while peering at Doogan, he eased into the leather chair, knitting his fingers.
The silence was deafening.
After what seemed like an eternity, Pomfrey said, “Can we rely on your allegiance?”
Doogan envisioned himself lunging above the desk and murdering Pomfrey where he sat. Then he thought of Paniess, and her plea for his cooperation. She had a plan. He felt it. Fabal might still be alive, and hoped he was with Fulvio.
He focused on Pomfrey. “Yes.”
“Good answer,” he said, shooting him a sinister grin.
As ordered, Clive chaperoned Doogan to the upper level, he was to meet with Pomfrey’s daughter, Paniess, but remain under guard. Banking a corner Paniess, in her red dress, stood at the end of the corridor, arms folded. She pushed off the wall and hung her arms loosely at her side.
After a cursory glance into his eyes, she said, “This way.”
She forced open a wooden door to a hospital-like room. Centered was a lone bed, and tucked under the covers, an elderly woman. A man holding a hypodermic needle stood at her bedside.
The man’s eyes widened. “Good afternoon, Dr. McTullan,” he said hesitatingly.
Swapping a consequential gaze, Doogan dipped his chin in greeting. “Dr. Gee Butterwood.” He walked over to the patient’s chart and picked it up to study, then looked at Paniess. “Your mother?” He would’ve never recognized the once vigorous woman who’d persistently chased him out of their residence.
“Yes, Doogan. She’s failing rapidly.” Paniess appeared solemn staring at her mother.
He riffled through the pages, quickly interpreting the diagnosis. “Why hasn’t anyone operated to remove the tumor?” he asked, in total physician mode.
Her eyes sliced to Gee. “Leave us.”
“I’ll just administer this pain med.” Gee injected the needle into a tubed port and left the room.
She grasped his arm, cerulean eyes watered. “The tumor is inoperable. No doctor here has the dexterity or skill. They’re all afraid of killing the Elite’s wife. No one will take the chance.”
“So we decided to watch her waste away?”
“You can do it,” she said fervently. “My father’s gone through stacks of files, and you’re the only doctor to attempt this kind of surgery.”
He inspected the frail woman on the bed, her sallow face and ragged breathing. “This explains a lot.”
“Explains what?”
“Why Pomfrey’s letting me go without even a slap on the wrist.”
“Partly—you’re absolutely right.” She bent over her mother and drew aside a strand of gray hair. “If you help my mother—” She paused to turn and look him in the eye. “then I’ll help you.”
“Help me how?”
“First, operate on my mother.” Her narrowing eyes creased at the edges, waiting for his answer.
“What have I got to lose?” he said resigned. “Get her prepped. I’m not guaranteeing she’ll make it through the operation. You know I’ll try my best.”
***
Gee Butterwood, Dr. Merkle, Dr. Sese, and two interns Doogan recognized from the lower level, assisted him during the surgery. Pomfrey and Clive blocked the double doors and scrutinized the procedure. As the hours ticked by, a ripe odor tinted the air, and he felt the insufferable tension fill the room.
Their bodies and shoulders deflating, Merkle and Sese left the room for a break.
Pomfrey moved in for a closer look. “They’re too old and arthritic. Their trembling hands can’t perform anymore,” he murmured, bowing over to study Doogan’s every suture. “They’re expertise is in educating—”
“Get the fuck out of my light,” Doogan cut him off. “You shouldn’t be in here, breaking my concentration.”
Those assisting gasped, and he couldn’t contain a smirk under his mask.
The operation concluded, Doogan exited the oppressive space, ripping off the rubber gloves and mask. “Keep her on Morphine or Fentanyl, whatever’s available,” he advised Gee. The other men had already retreated.
When Doogan glanced over his shoulder, Pomfrey was stationed by the gurney. He looked away, disgusted. He didn’t want to see love in the bastard’s face. How could he love when he was tearing people apart in the laboratories below?
As if reading his thoughts, Pomfrey turned and walked toward him. “Is she going to live?” he said in a caring voice. “Will she be…normal…you know what I mean?” He swiped a sleeve over his sweaty forehead. “Will she be able to function properly?”
“Those x-rays were a piece of shit. I was flying by the seat of my pants.” The planes of Pomfrey’s face hardened. In a humbler tone, he said, “The tumor looked benign. I believe it was contained in that one area of the skull. We really won’t know until she wakes. Even then, it could take a while.”
His evaluation didn’t seem to please Pomfrey, whose thin lips pinched together. “Clive, take him to get something to eat.” He spun on his heels and went back to his wife.
The stamping of Clive’s rubber-soled boots triggered Doogan to grind his teeth. Being treated like a prisoner was getting on his nerves. He strode into the cafeteria, which was more like an extra large kitchen with tables. Janitors and nurses had dispensed eating and chatting once they laid eyes on him, unable to hide their amazement. Happy voices addressing him were cut to the quick when Clive marched in.
Doogan said hello to the Mrs. Padder serving chicken sandwiches. Smiling, she held out her hand in a warm welcome, which he squeezed in return. He headed for a chair next to Gripper Deen, but Clive intervened and ushered him to a vacant table.
He hadn’t realized how famished he was and wolfed down his meal. Gee entered the lunchroom and sought him out.
Slumped on the wall with his arms over his chest, Clive started forward to object.
“It’s about the patient,” Gee said brusquely. “I need to ask him about a certain medicine.”
The Mediator consented with a jutting chin.
Gee dropped his voice to a scarce whisper. “My God, Doogan, I thought you were all dead.”
“They spared me. And now I know why, to operate on Gwin Addler.” He didn’t have the advantage to expound. “I was told Keeyla was shot and fell off a cliff, and Fabal is missing.”
Gee emitted a melancholy breath. “Do you think they’re telling the truth?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet, but I’m positive Basta can give me the information I’m looking for.” His gaze scoured the room, making sure they couldn’t be overheard. “Do you know about the experiments on the lower level?”
“What experiments?”
“You answered my question, thanks.”
“If there’s anything I can do,” Gee said, “let me know.”
“I have to get my head together. Free Tallas is an absurd oxymoron, and it’s getting worse.” Doogan cleaned his hands on a paper napkin then squished it between his fingers. “I don’t know when or if they’ll let me upstairs.” He looked Gee in the eyes. “You’ve put your life on the line for our sakes, and I shouldn’t even ask, but I have to meet with Basta. He’ll know about my family. Maybe it can be arranged?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Gee pushed off from the table then gripped Doogan’s shoulder as a sign of solidarity.
No sooner had he left the room when Paniess waltzed in, a smile decorating her face. “Dr. McTul
lan, I’m your personal escort.” She linked his elbow, drawing him to his feet. In a passive voice, she said, “It’s my job to give you a private tour of our facility.”
Matching her steps, he let Paniess guide him from the lunchroom. He wanted to groan as they began their descent to the lower level. Clive kept a moderate distance, following them like a suspicious lover.
“Why doesn’t anyone know about this lower facility?” Doogan asked.
“It’s always been here.” She accommodated him with a charming smile. “Since your father started construction, almost…let’s see, about twenty-eight years ago, give or take.” She tittered like a little girl. “I’ve been told—” She flipped a whorl of hair over her shoulder exposing a slender neckline. “—the Elites knew there was a great need for research in producing medicine, which has been obsolete since the wars destroyed everything.”
“Have you seen what they’re doing?” He spoke through barred teeth. “It’s gone beyond research for medicine.” Her body seemed to stiffen next to him.
“Before the day is through the whole village will know you’ve returned,” she said ignoring his question. “They’ll be relieved. It’s been a dreadful week with the tragedies of the other families spreading like wildfire.”
Despairing over his colleagues, Snark and Oberdick, and now his cherished Keeyla and Fabal, a thousand prickly needles embedded his throat making it impossible to swallow. He winked away the excess water filling his eyes. “When can I go home?” He sounded hoarse, and knowing they’d never let him venture out on his own.
“Be nice, collaborate with my father,” she said in an undertone. “Feign interest in their experiments, learn what you can do to stop their madness—”
Clive’s booted steps grew louder as he closed the distance, no doubt to eavesdrop.
The laboratory had amassed tubes, vials, and medical equipment that looked somewhat antiquated. Trays of tissue samples and slabs of body parts turned his stomach, especially now that he knew where they came from. The morbid Dr. Sese sat amid the plunder peering into a microscope, and scribbled his findings in a journal. Intent on his research, he seemed unaware of the visitors, mumbling to himself.
Before Doogan could say a word to the old doctor, Paniess pulled on his arm leading him out of the lab. Her highbred guise lost its sparkle. “That was a quick tour,” he jested.
“Dr. Sese doesn’t like to be interrupted.”
“Yeah, right. You look like you’re going to upchuck.”
Unbuttoning the top button of her dress, she inhaled. “I don’t like the smell of death and decay.”
“You’re working at the wrong place.” Training his voice for politeness, he asked, “When can I check on your mother?”
“My father feels your job is done. Dr. Riggley can take over now. You see, it was only your fine surgical proficiency that he required.”
Pissed, but not surprised, Doogan held onto his anger. They continued to walk the hallway where he was first sequestered. The rooms appeared to be unoccupied, now he felt like upchucking, thinking of their fate and the body parts in the lab.
His head ached, competing with his throbbing thigh. “Paniess, my leg’s killing me. I need to rest for a while.” Exhausted, he strolled with a prevalent limp.
“Maybe now you’ll take that pill and get some sleep.”
Once in his room and Clive posted outside, Paniess found the white pill on the bureau and handed it to him with a glass of water, which he downed in one gulp. He needed to fly away to la-la-land. The pill took immediate effect on his bruised and beaten body. His eyelids drooped and barely coped to stumble to the cot.
He didn’t contest as she took the opportunity to undress him. After collapsing onto the pillow he felt her breath in his ear, “I’ll help you, Doogan. Really, I will.” Cherry lips brushed his cheek, skimming their way to his mouth.
Chapter 17
The coonbagger tasted better than it looked. Notwithstanding its size, it wasn’t sufficient food for Tibbles. He plunged into the forest, probably to the stream to do some fishing. If trounced upon, the bear can certainly handle a measly coonbagger. Keeyla flung her meatless bone into the fire and, raising the leather flask to her mouth, sipped prudently. Clean water was their gold.
She removed her elbow from its sling and rotated her arm to work her numbed fingers that tingled like electrodes. Then, flicking a hand at pestering flies, she stared at the patch of land before them.
The vista evolved to a delicate shine, as the rising sun sent fingers of light through pale mists. They’d planted themselves beneath a sycamore tree where warped branches spread over them. And whispering leaves housed an awakening gaggle of oversized blackbirds, which descended to pick at the coonbagger’s bones.
An exuberant Fabal twirled in circles swatting at the squawking nuisance. He skipped over to Fulvio, asking for the slingshot so he could practice.
After the irksome coonbaggers, Keeyla examined the territory for signs of anything unusual. The land spreading ahead of them was mounded with wheaten-brown grasslands. It looked like churning tides in the ocean as the early morning breeze played with the tall stalks.
“How far are we going?” she asked Fulvio. “I thought we were meeting up with some people?”
Fulvio was busy gnawing on a bone, devouring every last speck. Brushing his hands on the long grass, he said, “Once we get through this sector, we’ll rendezvous with a couple of hearty souls.” He mopped down his mustache and beard before taking a swig of water.
“I prefer this open range to those gloomy woods any day,” she said.
He lifted his bearded chin and gazed over the breadth of land. “Yes, this grassy section does look peaceful.” He pointed to the west. “That region is uninhabitable wetlands that bleed into this vicinity. I’d much prefer the forest and its trees, which are superior shields. Crossing this patch, we can be detected for miles.” His gaze drifted in her direction. “The undergrowth has observant eyes.”
The vague insinuation didn’t sit well. She craned her neck toward the tranquil plain, feeling a corresponding foreboding.
“Fabal—” Fulvio bellowed. “Fabal!”
In a rush of adrenaline, Keeyla hopped to her feet, ready for some sort of attack. She glimpsed her son as he let loose a hail of stones with the slingshot, targeting the blackbirds. Stones nipped the birds’ feathery undercarriages, a horrible protest fired from their beaks. A wheeling squadron of fluttering wings flocked together and plummeted. The surging blackbirds hummed like the wind, sharp knife-like beaks pointed straight at Fabal.
Despite the peril, she dashed for her son.
Quick and exact, zooming arrows pierced three birds before she was even able to reach him. The swooping blackbirds flew in a semicircle and deviated into the woodlands.
Fulvio walked to where she lay sprawled over Fabal. His legs apart, knuckles on hips, his attitude intimidating, and a facial expression that could’ve turned the fleeing birds to salt in midair. “You kill only when your life is in danger or in need of sustenance. Fabal, gather the birds. We never waste meat, if we can help it.”
Keeyla climbed off her son, her muscles twitched in complaint. She reprimanded Fabal with a shake of her head.
Fulvio heaved a sigh. “Our bones have rested. Let us journey on.” He inserted his two pinky fingers between his lips and whistled. Clopping of horse hooves arrived, along with a grizzly growl stemming from the forest as Tibbles barreled into view.
“Fabal, be a good chap and help me cart up Tibbles,” Fulvio said.
The wooden cart clunked up, over, and around knolls inset with shale and rock. Weedy grass strangled the spokes on the cart’s wheels with every rotation, making it tougher for Tibbles to pull it. They had to stop and disengage the burdensome clutter. Completing the chore, Fulvio slipped his switchblade into the tether that hung from his belt, then cocked his head. “Shushhh.”
Like five effigies in a meadow, they listened. Teeming currents bowing blades of
grass wafted to their ears. In a swift move, Fulvio jumped astride Zennith, in front of Keeyla. Straining his neck, he scanned the perimeter. “Fabal, grab your sling-shot,” his voice demanding. “Keeyla, take this.” He plowed a handgun into her unsuspecting fingers. In one hand, he held a switchblade and with the other, he unsheathed a two-barreled rifle. “Keeyla, Fabal,” he warned. “Hold on.”
“Shouldn’t we run?” she asked.
“We cannot outrun them—not yet.”
Exploring the scenic region for their pursuer, Keeyla expelled an exasperated breath. “I don’t see a thing.”
“To the left, look down.”
Both Fabal and Keeyla studied the outlying ground. Their eyes rounded in fright as the tall grass branched apart, rippling like flowing water. Indentations of zigzagging grooves sped faster and faster toward them. Zennith’s haunches quaked, bunched tight, ready to flee, but endeavoring to remain steadfast. Tibbles fur spiked and nostrils flexed, inhaling the scent of danger.
“Ste—e—ady…ste—eady…” Fulvio said, his tone strict and controlled. “Aim for their heads.”
“Heads?” Fabal said, dubious.
Apprehensive, Keeyla peered at her son. A stoic boy waited with his slingshot pulled taut. It felt like forever, but in reality, only seconds.
Suddenly, like a colossal tree trunk catapulting from the soil, a scaly reptile hovered above them. The elongated serpent had three arching necks, each supporting a hissing head. Six yellow eyes, bearing a starburst black pupil, tracked its prey as its heads pitched to and fro. An ocher forked tongue licked Fulvio’s face. Just as one giant head lunged, Zennith twirled, outsmarting the serpent.
Two serpent heads plunged toward Fabal while one bobbled toward Fulvio and Keeyla. In an effort to curtail the serpent from Fabal, Fulvio swiftly released his knife. The blade pierced the scaly hide, heads reared in sheer agony. The wounded serpent slithered toward Zennith.
Fabal clung to a charging Tibbles. He swiped his deadly claws, slashing the serpent’s trunk.
“Get away, Tibbles—” screamed Fulvio. “No, back off!” His command too late as the serpent coiled toward Fabal.
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