Pipe Dreams

by Destiny Allison

  “Okay. What’s the prognosis on the other one?”

  “Not good. I’ve got him on morphine, muscle relaxants, and antibiotics. He hasn’t had a spasm in awhile. Looks like it’s Tetanus. I found a deep puncture wound on his foot and debrided it, but the spores are in his blood stream. If we can get him to a hospital, he’ll probably make it…”

  “But?” CoCo asked.

  “But his breathing is a problem. I’ve got to keep him sedated or his spasms could get so severe they’ll break his bones. He should be on a respirator. His lungs could fail,” the medic answered.

  “Will he regain consciousness any time soon?”

  Derek caught CoCo’s meaning. They had no business tending to civilians who weren’t mission relevant. If Jeremy couldn’t provide any additional information, they were obligated to abandon him.

  “Not likely. I take him off the meds, he does real damage to himself. The lockjaw alone would prevent him from talking. On top of that, until the infection is diminished and the poison is gone, it’s too risky to take him off the morphine. The muscle spasms could kill him. They’ll definitely make him uncooperative. He needs a hospital, Commander. He needs it soon.”

  CoCo nodded. “Thanks, Derek. Take care of him. We’ll reevaluate when we reconvene with the rest of the team.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Ramirez had pleaded with Bowen in the elevator, but the chief had not budged. Instead, he had handed Ramirez over to the mercenaries. They had been cold and impassive, locking him in a small office near the reception area. He had waited hours before a man came with a plate of food. Ramirez had been allowed to relieve himself and then he had been left alone.

  Except for the occasional bathroom break, he had spent that night and the next day in the room, memorizing every drab detail. His bed was an old couch, colored in blue and white stripes. The windowless walls were bare. A desk and chair were the only other furnishings. When the door opened and a mercenary signaled for him to follow, Ramirez jumped to his feet.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Seems like you’ve got a job. Let’s go,” the mercenary said.

  “Doing what?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No. Anything’s better than this.”

  Ramirez followed the mercenary across the lobby. In a long corridor, fluorescent lights were spaced at regular intervals in the dingy, white drop-ceiling. The mercenary paid no heed to his companion’s shorter legs and Ramirez had difficulty keeping up. At the end of the hall, a heavy steel door was guarded by yet another mercenary. They passed through and entered a different hallway, shorter and brighter than the first. Everything gleamed white. Their footsteps echoed as they approached a small chamber. It had an airlock door, thick glass windows, and three compartments. Inside, blue plastic suits hung neatly on one of the walls. A small bench and a row of lockers occupied the other.

  “Take your clothes off. Put one of these on.” The mercenary pointed to the suits. Ramirez complied. When he was dressed, the mercenary handed him a set of latex gloves, an expensive respirator, and goggles. Finally, the mercenary had him don plastic booties over his shoes. “Go through to the far side. Mac will take you into the plant,” he said.

  Ramirez nodded, swallowing hard. Anything that covered his face made him claustrophobic, but respirators and helmets were especially bad. The tiny clasps were often difficult to remove. He forced himself to breath deeply as he tightened the respirator around his face.

  The next room was for decontamination. High pressure shower heads were mounted on each of the four walls. A bin for dirty suits hugged the far one. Designed to remove loose particles before they clogged the shower drain, the final room was a vacuum chamber. A large pipe descended from the ceiling. The floor was a metal grate.

  A large man, dressed in gear similar to his own, opened the door for him. Except for the goggles and respirator, the man looked like a giant, blue Smurf and Ramirez stifled a nervous giggle. When the man stuck out his hand, Ramirez marveled at the gesture. Had the courtesy been extended because he was out of his uniform and not identifiable as a cop? Regardless, it was the first sign of civility he had encountered and he gratefully shook the man’s hand.

  “I’m Mac. I run the processing division. You’ll be working for me. There are some rules you have to follow. No ifs, ands, or buts. You don’t follow them, you’ll end up like them,” he said, pointing. Ramirez looked down. He was standing on a mezzanine, high above a warehouse floor. The mezzanine narrowed to form a catwalk that ran along each of the walls, making a complete circumference around the gigantic room. On the floor below, several rows of tables were surrounded by people wearing latex gloves and surgical masks. In front of them were measuring scales, stacks of plastic baggies, and piles of white powder. Scooping quantities from the piles, the workers placed them on the scales, adjusted the measurements by adding or removing some of the powder, and poured the contents into the baggies. Once full, they placed the baggies on conveyor belts that traveled the length of the room.

  Suddenly, an image of Blondie flashed in front of Ramirez’s eyes. When he had taken the savage prisoner, he had been astounded to discover track marks on his arms. Looking at the floor, Ramirez understood. In addition to whatever else happened at the Farm, Lewis was manufacturing drugs.

  Mac urged him to move. Their bootie covered shoes were noiseless on the metal grating of the catwalk. As they rounded each corner, the guards on duty shifted to make room for them to pass. The automatic weapons that leaned against the metal railing next to each of them made their function crystal clear.

  On the far side of the catwalk, a staircase descended to the main floor. They clambered down, turned right, and passed through a set of swinging double doors. Two men guarded each side of the entry. Unlike those on the catwalk, they stood at full attention and cradled their rifles in their arms. The movement of their heads was barely perceptible in response to Mac’s one syllable greeting.

  Beyond the doors lay a lab in full operation. Technicians, dressed in green, were busy at various mixing stations. Unlike their counterparts in the warehouse, they had thicker gloves and wore respirators. Enormous exhaust fans turned at full speed in the exterior wall, evacuating rank chemical fumes from the room. Ramirez shuddered. He had pulled bodies out of an exploded meth lab early in his career and didn’t relish the memory.

  Mac led him across the processing floor. On the other side, where the conveyors pierced the wall, was another door. Mac opened it, revealing artworks of every size and media crammed into corners and stacked on tables. Boxes, crates, and other packing materials covered every available surface. A foam machine, used for shipping fragile objects, was on a table to the side.

  Ramirez stared, mouth agape. Chuckling at his astonishment, Mac explained. “Yeah. The boss is pretty smart. Nobody questions art deliveries. The rich would have a fit if all their pricy baubles were open to random inspection.”

  Ignoring them, a mercenary fit a neat bundle of baggies into the hollow of a small bronze sculpture. When the cavity was full, he reattached the sculpture to its granite base, wrapped it in cellophane, and placed it into pre-molded foam inside a double walled, cardboard box. The box was then sealed and stacked in a neat pile near a rollup door at the back of the room.

  Leaving the packing area, Mac led him through a series of rooms that housed chemical ingredients. Ramirez recognized some of the names from his police training – denatured alcohol, hydrochloric acid, and sodium hydroxide were all used in meth labs – but he didn’t know the others.

  Finally, the tour complete, Ramirez followed Mac back up the stairs, across the catwalk, and into the decontamination chamber. They waited while the giant vacuum cleaned the loose particles off their clothes and then stepped into the shower where they stripped off the plastic suits, booties, and other protective gear. Mac pushed a button on the wall, treating them to a high pressure spray of hot water from all four directions.

  After a few minutes, the shower
stopped automatically. The men collected their shoes and entered the first compartment of the chamber. Using towels from inside one of the lockers, they dried themselves and donned their clothes.

  Ramirez’s mind churned. How did the drugs leave the island? They would have to travel through known methods, utilizing airports or shipping docks in the United States. Since they did, the mainland couldn’t be under siege or suffering the ravages of the Blue Flu and that meant the NSO had been spreading a giant lie.

  He felt sick. Not only had he agreed to enforce NSO mandates, his actions had enabled the administrators to manufacture and distribute massive quantities of illegal narcotics to the population at large – a population alive and well beyond the confines of the island’s natural borders. As he contemplated the scope of the fallacy, fury and hope conflicted with impotence. The irony was maddening. He had finally discovered the truth, but that discovery had imprisoned him. When he had been free to act, he had followed blindly. Now that he could see, he was powerless.

  “I don’t believe it. How could I have been so stupid?” he murmured.

  “Ah, sorry. Thought you knew,” Mac said.

  “Knew what?”

  Mac watched him, shaking his head. “They named this city right, don’t you think?” When his question went unanswered, Mac continued. “They say knowledge is the root of all evil and you, my friend, just took a gigantic bite from the apple. So much for paradise, huh? Hell, I’m hungry. You coming?” Ramirez scowled, but didn’t reply.

  CHAPTER 44

  Lewis took another sip of warm whiskey and cursed the flunky who had failed to refill the ice trays. The waiting was excruciating and he had never been a patient man. All his years of work were about to culminate in the ultimate payoff and he was anxious for the final stages to begin, but the preparations took time.

  On the floors beneath him, the new test specimens were being sorted into groups. They would undergo a series of evaluations including blood tests, urine samples, and other examinations to determine their respective health prior to the controlled release of Priscilla 279. For this last step, the diversity of the specimens was important, but only in regard to age, sex, and ethnicity. Lewis had already finished his research on the ill and Priscilla 279 had performed as expected under stress. It could combat a heightened immune system and survive. Now, he needed healthy people to breathe the airborne version. He wanted to see if the virus mutated and, if it did, to observe the effects. The clinical environment wasn’t ideal and there was not much time to study multiple generations, but he would be able to determine if the airborne version would consistently turn off the appropriate genetic markers.

  Priscilla 279 would change the world forever. When the final tests were complete, two species of man would inhabit the earth. One would be dominant, acting as lord and protector of the other. While the designers didn’t think of their minions as slaves, in reality they were. By mutating their genetic code, Lewis would render them incapable of free will. He and the others would be masters of this new breed, but unlike any other time in human history, the slaves would not object.

  He strode to the window that overlooked the yard. The sun was setting and the yard was empty. Only the sentries who protected the Farm were visible in the dusk. He swore. The girl he had requested had not arrived.

  Lewis finished his whiskey, poured himself another from the half-empty bottle on his desk, and paced. Just as he was getting ready to call down to the guards, the elevator dinged and the doors opened. One of his mercenaries pushed a teenaged girl into the room.

  “Would you like me to wait, Sir?” he asked.

  “It’s about fucking time! No, I don’t want you to wait! I’ll send for you when I’m done,” Lewis replied. The mercenary nodded and stepped back into the elevator.

  Lewis appraised the girl. Her long, stringy hair was still wet from the hosing she had received. The few dry wisps were the color of dirt. Still, her naked arms were firm and her mouth was full. She would do. He stroked the bare skin on her shoulder. The girl flinched and stepped away. Lewis laughed. The smell of fear was an aphrodisiac, as were tears, but he didn’t like those coming prematurely. He preferred to tease them out. They were his reward and often more satisfying than the mere physical climax. Before they fell, he wanted anger, resistance, and fight. The women he took should experience their complete lack of power. He could only achieve that if he goaded them and they failed to defend themselves effectively. This was an art he had mastered.

  He took another step toward the girl and grabbed her neck. As anticipated, she struggled against him. She even had the nerve to slap his face. The impact of her hand against the raw wounds made him cry out in momentary agony. Then, the pain acted as a stimulant. He curled his fist into a ball and punched the side of her head. The blow caused her to stumble and fall. She picked herself up slowly. He stepped in front of her as she turned to the elevator. “No, no, little girl. It’s not going to be that easy,” he said.

  The girl pivoted, scouting the room for another exit. There was one, but it was locked. She ran for it and he let her go, reveling in the movement of her body as she sprinted across the floor. When she turned the knob and pushed against the door to no avail, a sob broke from her. Too soon, Lewis thought. He closed the distance between them and grabbed both of her arms. She twisted against him, using all of her strength to shake free of his grasp.

  By now her screaming was distracting. Pushing her against the door, he pressed his mouth onto hers, muting her shrieks. She tried to bring her knee up between his legs, but he was ready for that. He slammed his body against hers, wedging her in place. Then he grabbed the neck of her thin tank top and ripped it open. The sound of the fabric tearing was intoxicating. Her tears began to fall.

  Lewis couldn’t wait any longer. He threw the girl to the floor and climbed on top of her. She was face down. He used one hand to hold her head against the ugly, beige carpet. He used the other to pull down the elastic waist of her sweat pants. She bucked against him, her hands clawing the carpet fibers. He savored every failed effort to dislodge him. In seconds, she would be his.

  When it was over, the girl laid limp and crying on the floor. He stood, fastened his pants, and smoothed his jacket. Then he poured another drink, sat down, and put his feet on the desk. If she tried to escape, he wouldn’t stop her, but she didn’t move. He picked up a pen and threw it at her, hoping she would respond. She didn’t. Eventually, he grew bored and radioed the guard to come and get her. Now that the deed was done, her sniveling annoyed him.

  After a few minutes, the elevator door opened and the guard stepped into the room. Without saying anything, he threw the girl over his shoulder and exited. Lewis would not see her again. Out of respect, he put his hand inside his waistband and touched his crotch. Then he brought his fingers to his nose and inhaled deeply. She had been a virgin. The strong smell of blood mingled with the juices of her body. He moved his fingers to his mouth and sucked them, tasting iron and salt. Finally, he put his head back, closed his eyes, and sighed – content to wait the short time until the testing could begin.

  A few hours later, the radio squawked. The preparations were complete. In an instant, Lewis was fully alert and moving toward the elevator and the second floor labs. In the years prior to the rebellion, he had outfitted them to the best of his ability. They enjoyed high quality equipment, airtight observation rooms, and full biohazard suits that connected to oxygen lines so he and his assistants could work with the specimens without fear of contamination.

  He walked the brightly lit corridor between the observation rooms, evaluating the inhabitants. As per his orders, three specimens occupied each of the six small units. Their hunched shoulders, crossed arms, and sunken faces expressed defeat while their wide eyes and shallow breathing spoke fear. Only one occupant demonstrated defiance. As Lewis passed, the man spat on the glass. “Watch that one carefully. I want immediate reports on any behavioral changes in him after the testing begins,” Lewis told his assistant
.

  Finally, he gave the go ahead. His assistant pushed a button on the wall and a red light blinked. A short, shrill alarm was the signal to evacuate the observation area so Priscilla 279 could be released. As soon as they cleared the corridor, the ventilation fans were turned off and the airtight door was sealed. The staff reconvened in an adjacent room filled with computers. Monitors showed images of the test subjects in each of the rooms. At Lewis’ command, his assistant keyed a switch and a green button lit up on the main computer console as the virus went airborne in the test units.

  It was anticlimactic. The subjects on the monitors demonstrated no discernable changes in either physiology or behavior. The effects wouldn’t be measurable on the surface. They would require blood samples and behavioral examinations. The data would be collected over days. Then, the subjects would be introduced to uncontaminated specimens. Tissue samples would determine whether Priscilla 279 behaved as planned. If it did, passing from human to human through the air and attacking each new host with equal vehemence, the virus would be a success.

  Lewis was tired. After the long years of waiting, the show had become tedious. He would let his assistants do the dull work and retreat to the luxury of his personal accommodations, the comfort of his bed, and the softness of Lucy’s skin under the sheets.

  CHAPTER 45

  It didn’t take long to walk the short distance from the administration building to the barracks. Vanessa kept her small pack in the locker at the foot of her bunk. During the day, new tents had arrived, along with the sundry equipment necessary to set up a temporary shelter for the refugees, but McGrath had relocated his men instead. The more he provided his guests, the more they would be willing to give in return, though that was not his only motivation. Having heard their stories, and witnessed their tenacity and courage, McGrath wanted to give these people a break. They deserved as much comfort as possible.