The Krinar Experiment

by Charmaine Pauls

  Even with all three men armed with pistols, they kept their distance.

  The oldest of the men took a step forward. “Do you speak our language?”

  Drako chuckled. “Of course, I do.”

  The men stared at him, open-mouthed.

  “What are you?” the one in the middle asked.

  How gullible would they be? “A test pilot from Denel.” He’d studied their organizations beforehand, knowing Denel fabricated their military aircrafts.

  Two of the men exchanged a look. It was the third who replied. “Denel hasn’t been operational for fifteen years.”

  “Not that you know of.”

  The man who’d spoken first walked to the far wall and removed a hose. He approached the foot end of the bed. “There are ways of making you talk.”

  Drako strained his neck to watch the man. “Where is my plane?” He said plane carefully, just like he’d memorized. “The testing is classified.”

  “It’s in a safe place. In time, we’ll take you there,” he grinned, “and you’ll show us how it works, as our technicians can’t figure it out. Yet.”

  Drako’s muscles tensed so much he almost snapped the ropes. “If you touched it…”

  “Of course we have,” the man said. “Now, let’s start again. What are you?” As he asked the question, he pushed the hose to the sole of Drako’s foot. An electric current zapped through Drako’s body. His muscles pulled tight, held in a painful vice from electricity. When the man finally let up, Drako was panting. His jaw ached from the tension.

  Seriously? They used shock therapy? Exactly how backward were they?

  “Well?” the man asked with a smug expression on his ugly Earthly face.

  Drako uttered a throaty laugh. “All right. Thanks for making the rules clear.”

  “Turn it up,” the man said to his colleagues.

  One of the men approached an antique looking device on a gurney and manipulated a dial switch. He’d scarcely finished when his accomplice zapped Drako again. His body arched off the mattress, his fingers and toes curling with painful spasms. It felt as if his insides were being ripped apart. A few more volts and his brain would be fried.

  “Talk!” the man said, aiming the hose at Drako’s exposed genitals.

  Enough.

  A roar tore from his chest. He flexed his arms and legs. It didn’t take more than that to snap the ropes. In a millisecond, he was on his feet. His baffled attacker dropped the hose, scurrying for a corner while the other two drew their weapons. Before any shots could be fired, Drako grabbed their wrists and pointed the weapons away from him. A crack sounded, followed by a chilling scream. One of the guns fell to the floor. Drako stared at the arm in his grip. The hand hung limp. Crute, these Earthlings were fragile. He’d popped the man’s wrist without any thought of applying such damaging pressure. He was still assessing the surprising damage when the man in the corner raised his gun. Drako ducked before the shot went off, swinging the second armed guard he still held by the arm around as a shield to discourage the other from firing his bullets, but the weight suddenly disappeared from his grasp. Another bloodcurdling cry filled the space. In his hand, he held nothing but an arm. Zut. Were these men made of cardboard? Drako gawked at the flesh in his hand. The man whose limb he’d severed was thankfully unconscious. The remaining two stared at him, their fear a sulfurous smell even stronger than that of the coppery blood.

  “Kill him,” the man with the broken wrist screamed.

  The one in the corner was still aiming his gun, but the weapon shook too much in his grip to take a clear shot.

  “Stop,” Drako said. “I don’t want to hurt you.” More, he added in his mind with a regretful sigh.

  “What the fuck are you?” the man with the gun shouted hysterically.

  His cover was blown. There was no point in pretending he was testing a secret plane any longer. As for being human, he’d never pass as one. Not after today.

  “Take me to my pod.” He nodded at the unconscious man who was losing blood even faster than himself. “I can heal him.”

  “Don’t listen to him! Shoot him! Shoot the motherfucker before he kills us with his bare hands.”

  Before Drako could deliver a more convincing argument assuring them he meant no harm, the door opened and several men in similar uniforms armed with automatic rifles rushed through.

  Drako lifted his hands, palms facing forward, in the Earthlings’ non-verbal command for cease-fire. “Take me to my pod, and all will be well for everyone.”

  “Like hell,” a man with red hair and a bushy moustache mumbled. “Stick him.”

  The muscle of Drako’s upper arm twitched as something sharp pierced the skin. A hypodermic needle stuck out from his arm. He pulled the injector from his flesh. The odor was sharp on his enhanced olfactory sense, but one he was unfamiliar with. Surrounded by SS guards, it was hard to say where the assault had come from, not that it mattered. There were too many of them. He was about to launch into another speech, appealing to their common senses to let him heal the wounds he’d sustained and those he’d inflicted when Earth tipped under his feet and gravity spun out of control.

  3

  The downpour started in all earnest before Ilse and Agent Pillay had made it to his car in the outside parking lot. If she hadn’t been running late this morning, she would’ve taken her umbrella. There had been no forecast for rain, but summer thunderstorms were always unpredictable, arriving almost daily around four in the afternoon and clearing up an hour later to leave the earth with a smell as enticing as clean laundry and a pretty rainbow to make up for the boisterous thunder and explosive lightning.

  Holding her bag over her head, Ilse lengthened her steps to keep up with Agent Pillay. The wind whipped the rain against her face, the drops stinging her cheeks. Her tunic and shoes were soaked by the time the agent had unlocked the door to let her in. Before closing the door, she squeezed the water from her braid in a futile attempt to not spoil his leather seats.

  “Sorry about that,” he mumbled as he got in beside her.

  She offered him a friendly smile. “It’s not your fault. You can’t control the weather.”

  “I meant not having an umbrella.”

  “That’s all right. I forgot mine, too.”

  She shivered as he started the engine and air from the air con hit her with a blast. Thankfully, he switched it off before pulling out of the hospital parking lot. As the Nelson Mandela Bridge appeared, he pulled onto the curb. They could get fined for obstructing traffic, not to mention that it was dangerous being parked on the narrow roadside. A car could slam into them and push them through the barrier and over the side.

  She sat up straighter. “Is something the matter?”

  He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a blindfold.

  She looked between the strip of cloth and his expressionless face. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Protocol.”

  When she didn’t reach for it, his jaw tightened. “Put it on, Nurse Gouws, and make a speedy job of it.”

  She snatched the fabric from his hand and tied it behind her head.

  “Good,” he said, satisfaction bleeding into his voice.

  Without making further conversation, he steered them back onto the road. She tried to keep her bearings and discern their direction, but they’d taken several turns by the time he pulled to a stop and said, “You can remove the blindfold.”

  They were in an underground parking. From the few cars in the lot, it wasn’t a busy building. Green paint peeled from the walls, and the concrete floor was stained with car oil.

  He opened his door. “Come on.”

  Without waiting to see if she was following, he turned for an elevator that was operated by an armed guard. The uniform was SS, not police force or correctional services. Once they were inside, the guard pressed the button for minus four, and the elevator started moving with a jolt. According to the numbers on the panel, there were eight floors above ground
and four under. They exited on the lowest level. Agent Pillay led her along a hallway with a low ceiling. Tungsten lights flickered overhead. They passed several metal doors, all fitted with deadbolts. The facility had to be old. The prison she’d visited in Pretoria had electronic locks on the cells that worked with a code. She suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with her wet clothes. At the last door, he stopped. A group of men in civilian clothes were gathered outside.

  “This is Agent Evans,” Agent Pillay said, indicating a man with copper hair and a big moustache. “He’ll take over.” He left with a salute.

  Agent Evans extended a hand. “Call me Pete.”

  She shook his hand. “Ilse Gouws.”

  “Ms. Gouws––”

  “Ilse, please.”

  “Ilse, did Agent Pillay tell you anything about our prisoner?”

  “Nothing.”

  He nodded his approval. “The less you know, the better, except that he’s a convicted felon, a dangerous man who committed terrible crimes.”

  The shiver she managed to maintain until then escaped. “What kind of crimes?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t elaborate. All you need to concern yourself with are his injuries.” He motioned to a man on his left with a casted wrist. “Agent Frik Retief is in charge of our medical supplies. He prepared everything you should need.”

  “What kind of injuries are we talking about?”

  “You’ll see,” he said evasively.

  Agent Retief ran his eyes over the length of her. “Ready?”

  She took a breath and steeled herself. Prison fights could cause nasty injuries, and not knowing what to expect, made it worse. “Yes, Agent.”

  “Please, why so formal? It’s Frik.”

  “All right, Frik. Let’s see your prisoner.”

  Frik flicked his fingers at one of the men standing guard at the door who immediately pulled back the deadbolt.

  “Ilse?” Pete touched her shoulder.

  She turned back to face him. “Yes?”

  “You can’t speak to anyone about this man or what you did here today. This case is classified. Government business. If you mention anything about what you’ve seen, you’ll force me to take action. Understand?”

  The underlying threat in his words was clear.

  “Of course.”

  “Good. You can go in now.”

  The door swung open, and Frik stood aside for her to enter. From the part of the room she glimpsed through the doorway, it was a concrete dungeon with a gray slab ceiling, floor, and walls. She stepped over the threshold cautiously. The temperature was too cold to be comfortable. Goosebumps broke out over her arms and legs. The inside smelled of damp, blood, and sweat. Her nostrils twitched at a faint odor of something like burnt hair.

  “Go on,” Frik said, waving her in impatiently.

  For some reason she was hesitant to go deeper into the room. She couldn’t stop another quake from crawling over her skin. Claustrophobia constricted her throat. Her palms turned clammy. This was nothing like the prison cells where she’d bandaged stab wounds. What was this place?

  All thoughts fled her mind when she rounded the door. She stopped dead, her heart jostling in her chest. Against the far wall, a man was shackled in chains, his arms and legs spread wide, stretching him into an X. Blood dripped from his side. His shoulder was cut open to the bone, and there was a nasty gash on his shin. She had no problem in seeing his wounds, because he was stark naked.

  His head hung low, hiding his face from her. The skin that wasn’t smeared with blood and dirt was smooth and flawless with a golden sheen. Too flawless. If not for the corded muscles that twitched under his lean form, he could’ve been a wax statue or a mannequin. He was unnaturally tall. She barely reached his chest. His short-cropped hair was a dark caramel color, thick and glossy. The rest of his body was hairless. Even his genitals. She couldn’t help noticing the size of his penis. Dear God. She’d never seen anything like it, and she saw a lot of naked bodies in her profession. Thick and long, it hung heavy between his legs. Flawless, like the rest of him.

  Out of respect, she drew her gaze away, not lingering to explore the intimate details of his nakedness. Indignity on his behalf evoked her compassion and anger. The least they could do was cover him. She was about to say so when he lifted his head, and their eyes connected.

  A yellow gaze simmering with sparks collided with hers. She sucked in a breath. The intensity of his stare was brutal. She felt it right to her soul, to where she was a woman first and a nurse second. His nostrils flared slightly as he kept his eyes trained on her, his chest rising and falling with a deep breath. His face was strikingly perfect, a work of art. A thin, straight nose was set off against high cheekbones and a proud chin. His full lips would’ve been sensual had they not been pulled into a sneer. There were no words to describe him. He was a magnificent specimen. Whatever he was, he wasn’t human, not with those eerie eyes, too perfect face, and too large body. He was something else.

  Something different.

  Something … frightening.

  Despite his injuries and awkward imprisonment, his comportment was regal. He held his shoulders square and his back straight. He looked down at her from his impressive height, as a ruler would measure a subordinate. His gaze moved over her face, seeming to analyze her features to the smallest detail. The piercing stare moved down and came to a stop midway. His head tilted with the slightest angle. Unabashedly, unapologetically, he studied her breasts. Under his scrutiny, her nipples hardened. She looked down at the wet fabric of her white tunic. It had to be see-through. Her cheeks heated uncomfortably. It took all her willpower not to cover herself up with her arms. Doing so would signal that she was aware of him, and it wasn’t professional behavior for a veteran nurse to see a man as anything other than a patient. His lips twitched, as if he called her bluff.

  Frik’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Are you going to do something or just stand there?”

  The spell that held her immobile broke. She tore her gaze away from the prisoner’s and jerked back to life. The man was critically injured. The fact that he was still standing was a miracle, never mind that he was standing there like a king instead of a man chained in the deepest, darkest of basements.

  She turned her fury on Frik. “This man has to go to a hospital.”

  The agent shook his head. “Not going to happen.”

  “He needs a doctor.”

  “He’s not getting one. You’re his best shot.”

  “Prisoner or not, he’s entitled to medical attention.”

  “Wake up and smell the roses, honey. The country is short of doctors. Right now, there’s no one but you, so march your butt over there and do your job.” He smirked. “We could wait it out until a state doctor becomes available, but it won’t be for hours. By then, he may be dead.”

  The stubborn look on his face told her he wasn’t going to budge. Worse, the spark of malice in his eyes indicated he might be happy if the prisoner didn’t make it. Whatever the man had done to deserve such ire, it wasn’t her job to judge. Her job was to cure, to save lives if it was in her power to do so. It was what she’d promised when she’d taken her oath.

  She turned back to the man, gauging his wounds. The pain had to be excruciating.

  She straightened her spine with resolve. “Uncuff him.”

  Frik looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “What?”

  “Take off the chains.”

  He glanced at a mirror on the opposite wall. Probably a one-way mirror. They were being watched.

  “I can’t help him if he’s chained to the wall,” she said.

  “You don’t know what he did the last time his hands were free.” He lifted his casted wrist. “This is nothing compared to the other things he did.”

  She swallowed away the dryness in her throat. “Release him and give him a bed to lie down on.”

  Frik took two threatening steps toward her. “He ripped a man’s arm straight off.”
He flicked his fingers. “Just like that. Saw it with my own eyes.”

  Pete walked into the room. He gave Frik a look, wordlessly communicating something she didn’t understand.

  “Fine.” Frik took a key from his pocket and threw it at her feet. “Have it your way.”

  “We don’t have a bed on site,” Pete said. “You’ll have to make do with a stretcher.”

  A guard entered swiftly with a pliable stretcher that he assembled and deposited on the floor. The haste with which he departed wasn’t lost on her.

  There was a basin in the corner, but no shower or bath. She took in the gurney laid out with surgical gloves, disinfectant, anti-septic soap, surgical thread, needles, and bandages. “I’ll need a local anesthetic.”

  “We don’t have any,” Frik said.

  Don’t have or won’t show the prisoner mercy? “I have to stitch him up. You said you were prepared.”

  “You’re going to have to do it without an anesthetic.”

  “What?” She looked from Frik to Pete. “This is unorthodox.”

  Pete shrugged. “If you can’t work without it, we can always get another nurse.”

  She spared the man in the chains a look. His face was an unreadable mask.

  “Are you sure about being left alone with him?” Pete asked. “My men won’t risk it.”

  “I’m here to help him. I doubt he’ll attack me.”

  Frik snickered. “This is going to be interesting.”

  A look from Pete shut him up.

  “At your own risk, Ilse.” Pete pushed Frik ahead of him through the doorway. “Good luck.”

  The heavy metal door swung shut. She was closed into the space with a man who wasn’t a man. Scrap that. He was very much a man, just not human. Not completely. She was frightened, but he needed her help, or he was going to die.

  Her heart thumping in her chest, she bent to pick up the key. When she straightened, she caught the prisoner studying her. Gathering all the courage she possessed, she approached him. From close up, he was even more breathtaking. His gaze sparked with something that reminded her of the Highveld electrical storms, of lightning zipping across the sky. Now that she was close enough to touch him, she could see more than blood and grime. Underneath the dirt, bruises marred his ribs. She knew bruises like that. They were caused by fists. The ends of his hair were singed in places. That explained the smell when she’d entered. Her breath caught as realization hit her. He’d been tortured.