The Blood Pawn

by Nicole Tillman

  “Blood pressure dropping,” calls a voice.

  Everything in the room grows red, as if a veil has been placed over my eyes, and I reach out for a hand to hold. The metal cuffs stop me, and I curl my fingers, letting my nails bite into the soft flesh of my palm.

  I want to leave.

  I want to go home.

  A wet rag moves over my eyes and down my cheek. The warmth of it feels positively acidic against my skin.

  “She's bleeding.”

  Bleeding? Where?

  Looking down, I see blotchy skin and sores beginning to come to a head, but no blood. Then I look at the rag Paula holds in her hand.

  “Wha- what's hap- happening?”

  “I don't know, Maya,” she says, dropping the rag and putting a hand to my forehead. “I'm sorry.”

  “Is her blood panel back yet?” a male voice booms from across the room. “Pull up her file.”

  “Yes, sir, they were just processed.”

  “Here, let me see.”

  The beeping intensifies, growing even louder, resonating through me until I fling my head back and forth, internally begging for this to be over, whatever it is.

  The man mutters something beneath his breath. A curse.

  “What does that mean? Who was her administrator?”

  Every head in the room moves to stare at Paula, even mine. She takes the clipboard and lets her eyes bounce around the chart.

  “Oh no,” she whispers.

  Oh no? Don't say oh no! Say you can fix this! Say you can stop it!

  “Well?” the man demands. “What's happening?”

  Paula, unsure and shaken, lowers the clipboard and looks the suited man head-on.

  “We– I injected her with the cultivated virus when she already had the latent virus inside her. It was dormant, so she wasn't exhibiting symptoms.”

  “Meaning?”

  Paula, poor, terrified Paula, looks down at me with something new in her eyes. Pity.

  “Meaning we just reactivated the virus.”

  No.

  No, no, no.

  She can't mean...

  That's impossible.

  Why would I– HOW could I?

  “Am– am I going to die?” I manage to gurgle.

  Paula takes my hand and shakes her head.

  “No. No, Maya. You're–”

  One solid, high-pitched beep tears through the room. Everyone stops what they're doing to look at the monitor. Then they all turn back to face me.

  I can see their eyes. I see the uncertainty, the disbelief.

  No one moves to help me.

  They only stare.

  Slowly, they begin to back away from the bed.

  I reach out for them, for anyone, but can't move more than a few inches. When everyone's a safe distance away, the man in the suit reaches out to a panel on the wall and presses a button.

  The continuous beep from the monitor – signaling the death of my heart – is replaced by the wailing of an alarm, and the evacuation of the laboratory.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  They all just... stare at me.

  Every single one of them. Not that I blame them. I'd probably stare in horror too.

  In the sheet of glass that separates me from the fifteen other teenagers, my withered reflection stares back at me.

  At least, I think it's my reflection.

  This girl in the glass has matted and tangled hair, red splotches where sores have begun to rise, cracked lips, and her eyes, which were once brown, are now much paler and covered in the webbing of busted blood vessels. She looks like a wild, untamed creature that should be locked away, not for her own good, but for the safety of all mankind.

  And that's exactly what they'd done.

  Mankind – the nurses, under the direction of the President himself – dragged me into one of the three solitary holding quarters and left me here. Left me to stare into the red eyes of my reflection and, beyond that, the terrified eyes of the group I was once a part of.

  I bet Paula isn't jealous of me anymore.

  Even Martina looks as if she's staring at a corpse.

  Which, if I'm being honest with myself, she is.

  Despair mingles with numbness as I let it sink in- really sink in.

  I'm one of them. The diseased we've been gathered to fight against.

  How? I didn't know.

  I don't understand how I've carried the virus inside my own body, dormant and calm, just waiting to be awoken.

  I don't understand how it made its way into my bloodstream, undetected, a bomb waiting for someone to detonate.

  But that's the reality.

  A very horrifying reality.

  “Lights out,” a voice calls from the doorway.

  I don't bother to seek it out. Instead, when the lights above my head extinguish, I make my way to the concrete block that will serve as my bed until they put me out of my misery.

  My limbs make subtle, jerky movements as I walk, and even when I lay flat, my muscles continue to twitch.

  So this is what it's like to be dead.

  Dead...

  I'm dead.

  No. I'm not dead. I'm... undead?

  No heartbeat. My lungs stopped trying to drag in breath an hour ago.

  I close my eyes and fight the sobs that surprise me by trying to burst from my lips. Apparently, the dead can cry.

  Curling up, I hug my knees to my chest and pray for it to end, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, with sleep, death will come.

  But sleep never comes.

  And neither does death. Not a true death, anyway.

  The minutes and hours tick by. Through the vents in the top of the glass boxes, I hear the others snoring, resting peacefully. I hear them talk in their sleep, some even cry out. Dreams and nightmares play through their fully-functioning brains as synapses fire and they slip in and out of REM.

  No more dreams for me.

  No dreams for the dead girl...

  Some hours later, four beeps and a hiss whisper through the room before the door swings open and in walks Arthur March, Secretary of Defense. Flanking him are two guards, although instead of their regular black T-shirts and camo pants, each wears a bulky, bright yellow hazmat suit. They carry assault rifles instead of their usual harnessed pistols. Heavy boots carry them across the floor before coming to a stop outside the glass room where the others are jolting awake.

  “Up and at 'em!”

  One guard unlocks the door and steps aside as it slides open.

  “I trust you all can find your way back to the dormitory?”

  They nod. Good for them...

  “You'll find uniforms in your lockers. Put them on. Someone will be by to take you down to the cafeteria within the hour. Go.”

  They all scramble out, talking excitedly to one another, sharing their enthusiasm for their freedom while I stay behind.

  “Except you two,” says one of the guards. I don't bother to look up. “You stay.”

  “What? Why?”

  Their question goes unanswered.

  “Good morning, Maya.”

  The secretary's voice cuts through the stale air, and I turn my attention to the man standing on the other side of the glass. My feet swing over to touch the floor and I grip the corner of the hard block of concrete, but that's as far as I feel like going. I refuse to stand to greet him.

  “Morning, sir.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  I think on that for a second, after hours of trying NOT to feel. Taking an internal inventory, I answer as honestly as I can.

  “I feel... numb.”

  “Numb,” he repeats. “Okay, what else?”

  My eyes lift to meet his and I shrug.

  “There's nothing else. Just numb. Numb and cold.”

  “Are you scared?”

  He really has the nerve to ask me that?

  I want to retort with anger, but looking within, I realize that, no, I'm not scared. Not anymore. I was, but that feeling fled
sometime throughout the night.

  There is no fear.

  None.

  I can't find a trace.

  “No, sir.”

  “Hungry?”

  The single word holds a challenge, as if he's trying to prod me.

  But there's no hunger.

  “No, sir.”

  He turns and motions for the guards. I watch them even as he continues to speak.

  “I need you to tell me everything you're feeling, Maya. Even if you think it's insignificant, I want to know. Understood?”

  The door opens. Guard Dumb and Guard Dumber, each holding a person by the arm, pull them inside. As soon as the door closes behind all four of them and we're thoroughly cramped together, they raise their weapons.

  What the hell?

  Two rifles aim at my head. Two teenagers, one shaking, one stiff as a board, watch me like one might watch a rabid dog.

  The blond boy with the scar on his jaw and the girl who can't talk without a fearful stutter.

  Tara is her name. His name I still don't know. I haven't even been here long enough to learn more than two people's names, yet I'm about to eat a bullet. And the funny part is... I just can't find it in me to care.

  But I want to care. Ever since that one little sob tried to break free I've been trying to care. The emotion I'm looking for is just... gone. Vanished. And the worst part is, I can't even be angry about that.

  “Have a seat.”

  The secretary directs the question at the others, and Tara's eyes grow wide and shiny with tears.

  “You're kidding, right?”

  Stupid question to ask. He obviously isn't joking, and that's apparent by the way he stares at her. The boy who obviously doesn't fear for his life, either that or he thinks he can take me on, creeps forward slowly and takes a seat at the edge of the block. He watches me carefully, although I don't know why. I haven't moved a muscle – literally – since he stepped inside.

  Tara takes a little longer, but eventually she makes her way over, shaking like a leaf in the breeze, until she can perch one butt cheek on the corner of my bed.

  “Anything, Maya?”

  Do I feel anything?

  Am I supposed to feel something?

  “Maybe confusion?”

  He pushes both hands into his pockets. “Over what?”

  “I'm not sure,” I answer in a monotone that barely registers as my voice. “I don't know why they're in here with me. And I don't know why your meatheads are ready to kill me the second I move.”

  “Well, they're in there with you because we're not sure what you are. Our boys down in the lab are going over your blood work but they're not sure how-”

  “Yes they are,” I interrupt.

  March's jaw tenses in irritation. “Excuse me?”

  “They know what happened. They said it while I was on the table,” I say calmly. “I already had the virus inside me. Sleeping. Dormant. You gave me a strand of the virus, which woke it up. I've been walking around with a gun pointed at my own head for who knows how long. You- you just walked up and pulled the trigger.”

  We stare at each other for a long time as he tries to think of something to say. When he finally speaks, his words bounce around my skull as I process them.

  “We don't know what happened.”

  I just explained it to him. How does he not get it? I don't get it all, but I'm a kid. He's supposed to understand things like this.

  Is he lying to me? He has to be. He knows. They all know.

  “We're not sure what you're capable of, Maya. I need to know what we're dealing with so I know how viable you are as an asset.”

  Lies.

  Lies, lies, lies.

  “Why are you lying to me?”

  His throat ripples as he swallows.

  “Maya... I'm not-”

  A bolt of electricity surges through me and I stand. Before I know what I'm doing, I bang a fist against the glass.

  Anger. Pure, undiluted, uncontrollable anger surges through my stiff body.

  There.

  There it is.

  That's what I've been looking for.

  I fully embrace the anger, especially after not knowing if I'd be able to feel something – anything – ever again.

  I love the feel of its heat. Its vibration. Its strength.

  I let it roll through my shoulders, tense my back, and pull at my lips until I sneer menacingly at the secretary.

  “You did this to me!” I roar, pounding the glass again. “You did it!”

  Secretary March bows his head and takes one step back. I don't think it's a conscious decision to put distance between us, merely his survival instincts pulling the strings. But it's clear that this man fears me, on a cellular level.

  As he should.

  “You already had a strain of the virus in your system,” he explains, keeping his voice low. “When we introduced the live virus, instead of creating an immunity, it created-”

  “It didn't create anything,” I say, cutting him off. “It killed me.”

  “In a way.”

  “It killed me,” I say again, this time on a whisper.

  He hesitates, jerking his eyes to face the others.

  “Yes.”

  “And now I'm one of them.” It's a statement, not a question, but he answers anyway.

  “Yes.”

  Not knowing what else to say or what else to do, I let my eyes fall to the ground. I don't want to look at him anymore because, in order to do that, I have to look past my reflection. And I'm tired of looking at that wretched hag.

  Several minutes pass before the secretary speaks again. When my brain registers his voice, the anger return, its size dwarfing my earlier outburst.

  “Anything, Maya? Do you feel anything toward them? Do you want to harm them? Bite them? End them?”

  “No,” I snarl. My ice-cold blood boils in my ratty veins. “I don't want to end them. I want to end YOU!”

  The glass shudders from the force of my fists connecting with the smooth surface. Over and over again I pound, aiming at the shocked face of the man I now blame.

  “I want to end you! You did this! This is your fault! YOUR FAULT!”

  I don't see or hear the guards move, but I sense them take a step closer. Turning my back to the glass, I look at their guns and fall to my knees.

  Devastation replaces anger, and I grab hold of a barrel and slam it against my forehead.

  “Do it,” I bark. “Pull the trigger. If you're so scared of me, then do it. If I'm going to spend the rest of my life rotting away in this room, then just PULL THE TRIGGER! DO IT!”

  I can't see through the tears. They blind me as they fill my eyes and my entire body shakes, not with involuntary muscle spasms, but with emotion I can't even begin to tamp down.

  The guards hold their ground, even as the door behind them slides open.

  “Come on out.”

  Tara doesn't need to be told twice.

  She races past me, shaking and crying as always. The guards back away slowly once I release my hold on the gun, and they leave as well. Only the boy with the scar remains.

  Brushing my wild hair away from my face, I lock eyes with him, daring him to say something. Anything. I dare him to show me pity, to squirm at the sight of my sores.

  “Cain. Out. Let's go.”

  Cain...

  He takes three steps toward the door before stopping.

  Spinning back around, he makes his way over and pulls something out of his pocket. He offers it to me, and I take it without looking up. My body falls back into autopilot as the anger drains away.

  Both doors – the glass one in front of me, and the metal one beyond that – click back into place, and I'm alone.

  I open my eyes, lift my head, and examine the crumpled material in my hand.

  Cain left me a red paisley handkerchief.

  My hands lift it to my cheek and I feel how soft it is against my skin. Sighing, I wipe away my tears before laying it on my lap.


  But when I look down, the red print isn't damp with transparent tears. The mopped up puddles aren't clear, but they're not red either.

  They're black.

  Black.

  Like rot.

  Like stale blood.

  Like death.

  Chuckling, I stare at it in wonder and fascination.

  “Corpses can cry...”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Paula and one of the younger nurses wheel a cart of medical supplies into my tiny cell. It looks like I'm going to start my day off by getting poked and prodded at like a science experiment gone wrong.

  “How'd you sleep, sweetie?” Paula asks.

  The last thing I want to do is scare her by admitting that I can no longer close my eyes and drift off to dreamland, so I lie.

  “Really well, thanks.”

  She smiles warmly and goes about uncapping a syringe. Light reflects off the needle as she shuffles forward, waving for me to scoot to the edge of my bed.

  “Paula, if you keep taking blood I'm not going to have anything left.”

  “Well, it's not as if you need it,” she jokes.

  True. So very true. It's no longer the thing sustaining life inside me. In fact, I'm not at all sure what IS keeping me going. Evil? Magic? Faith, trust, and pixie dust? Who knows?

  The prick of the needle barely registers to my handicapped brain, and I wait patiently, keeping perfectly still as she fills the syringe while humming to herself. The other nurse stands back in the corner, observing from a safe distance. Apparently, she doesn't trust me as much as her superior seems to.

  But Paula shouldn't trust me.

  I don't trust me.

  The only thing I can feel right now is numb indifference, and that can't be good. Not when I'm supposed to be worried, scared, anxious... A human would feel all those things.

  I feel nothing.

  “Okay, that's all I need.” Paula lays a vial of black ooze on her tray. “Now I need you to stand up.”

  I do as I'm told and she stands in front of me, a mere foot away. She must be crazy, trusting me as much as she is.

  “Stand on one foot.”

  Umm... okay.

  I pull my left foot off the floor and my hands automatically stretch out for balance.

  “Good. Now, close your eyes and touch each pointer finger of each hand to your nose, one at a time.”