“Nighty-night, Sammy.”
Sam coughed. He looked up at Vincent, but the Rover was standing very far away at the end of an incredibly narrow tunnel.
And then…
Whispers. Urgent whispers getting louder. His eyes half opened. He was still in the trailer, but it was full of people. They were far away, which was weird because the trailer was small. And he was shaking…trembling. Every muscle in his body seemed to be juddering.
“He’s waking up!”
Someone pushed his head back and forced his right eye open, before letting go and turning away.
“Nah,” said a distant voice. “There’s nobody home.”
“Shit.”
“Don’t panic,” mumbled another hazy voice. “So long as he’s alive when we do the handover…”
Sam felt himself slipping away, then something sharp cut into his head.
“Fuck! He’s having another seizure!”
Then he was awake…walking down a road.
No, he wasn’t. It was a dream. A nightmare.
A flickering shadow play of all the things he’d spent years trying to forget: his mother’s accident, her face when she realized that this time she wasn’t going to make it, the dank cave where his father had drawn his last painful breath, and the quiet staccato rattle that meant Sam was finally, truly alone. It all danced before his dreaming eyes, out of order and in vivid hues: the first time he had seen someone killed, the last time he’d been embraced, the wretched cabin in the desert, the wolves that had circled as his last twig had burned in the cold forests of Oregon.
Then the stabbing pain again. Then nothing. Nothing was good.
The next thing he felt was cold. The cold of a concrete floor. People were shouting. Men and women yelling. He was shaking. Lying on a concrete floor, shaking uncontrollably while people yelled.
Then he was lifted. Strong arms carrying him away from all the yelling. Good. The yelling was bad. Then something white. Needles and tubes in his arms. A different kind of pain.
Twisting. Cramping.
When would it stop? When would it stop?
Why couldn’t he die?
He opened his eyes. He was in a white room. In an actual bed. He tried to sit up but found that he couldn’t move. There was the sound of a door opening and closing and the click-click-click of heels on linoleum.
“Well, this is an improvement!” The voice was female, old, and chirpy.
She loomed over him, wearing a white coat over a flowery pink blouse, her grey hair pulled back into a tight bun.
“How are we feeling?”
Sam opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, she pulled on his eyelids and shone a light into each of his eyes, then shoved a thermometer into his mouth. He blinked and struggled to sit up again, but it was no good.
“I’m afraid our friends the Rovers were a little over-enthusiastic with your medication, Sam. A bit of an overdose, really. Your motor neurons should start working again in a day or two. Well, your temperature’s normal, that’s a blessing anyhow.”
Sam strained to ask a question, but the muscles in his face wouldn’t cooperate.
“Who…” he whispered, finally.
“Oh, well done! I’m Dr. Robinson and I’ll be your supervising physician. We’ll have you on your feet again in no time. Everyone’s just dying to meet you, but we need to get that nasty phyrozene out of your system first.”
He struggled to form another word, but all that emerged was a rasping cry, forced from his throat by a twisting cramp that felt like an animal trying to claw its way out of his innards.
“Oh dear,” said Dr. Robinson, patting his hand. “It’s so hard, isn’t it? The best thing that you can do now is sleep, so I’ll leave you to it.”
She straightened up, smiled and clip-clopped away and out of the room.
Sam lay there staring at the ceiling. He’d never felt so helpless in his life.
After about half an hour he drifted off to sleep and dreamed of running through the night but never getting anywhere. He was woken by the sound of the door opening and closing again. There was a clanking sound, then something he couldn’t identify. He closed his eyes, concentrated, and managed to slowly turn his head.
It was a young girl. She looked about eleven, with golden hair and rosy cheeks, like a picture in a book. She was mopping the floor, kicking the bucket along as she went.
“Oh! I’m sorry! Did I wake you?” Her voice had a breathless quality to it.
Sam tried to say something, but it still wouldn’t come.
“I’m Bethany,” said the girl. “I clean the rooms. You’ve been lying there for so long, I didn’t think you were going to wake up.”
Sam stared at her.
“Can’t you talk? Oh.” She sounded genuinely disappointed. “Well, I’d better get on. I get in trouble if I take too long.”
She did a final flourish with the mop, picked up the bucket and was gone, leaving Sam to drift off into a restless sleep, punctuated by convulsing cramps that jarred him awake and left him gasping.
As the hours passed, the length of time between the cramps grew longer and their intensity less, until at last he was able to really rest, sinking into a peaceful, dreamless oblivion.
He woke with no idea whether it was night or day. The room was constantly lit and he could see the glint of a small camera in the far corner, but there was no window and nothing to indicate the passage of time. He wondered exactly how long it had been. When he’d first woken up, he’d assumed he’d been out a couple of days, but Bethany’s surprise seemed to indicate that he’d been there much longer.
That meant Nathan would have been able to put a lot of miles between him and his car. Sam felt his anger rise again at the thought of the lousy little ex-Rover stealing the goat. As if the betrayal itself weren’t bad enough, he’d just had to twist the knife!
And then he realized something. His right hand was in a fist! His muscle control was returning! He tried moving his arms. Still not much, but definitely better. He felt elated and then suddenly cautious.
He glanced at the camera. His best bet for now was to pretend he was still paralyzed. The longer they thought he was immobile the more likely it was that he’d be able to get away.
Get away from where? His whole world right now was this single white room. Presumably it was in San Francisco, but he had no idea whether it was underground or twenty stories up.
Sam closed his eyes. He’d spent most of his life on his own, driving around the Wilds, just getting by. He could’ve settled down any time. Plenty of people had offered to share their home with him over the years, particularly when he was younger, but he liked the sense of freedom that the road gave him. So why had he given Nathan a lift?
Something about how pathetic he looked standing at the side of the road.
Never again. Next time he’d just cruise right by.
He didn’t need anyone.
Though right here, now…he really wished he wasn’t quite so completely alone.
Chapter 17
TWO DAYS LATER SAM HAD most of his mobility back, though he concealed his progress from Dr. Robinson as much as possible. Once a day Bethany would come in and mop and twice a day she’d come in with a bowl of slop and feed him. He wanted to talk to her, to find out where he was and what was going on, but he was wary of the camera.
On the third day he decided to do something about it. It was risky, but if he was quick it might just work without raising too much suspicion.
He guessed that the long periods in which neither Dr. Robinson nor Bethany showed up were probably night, so he waited until everything had been quiet for a few hours, then turned his head slowly to the right and closed his eyes. The other EMPs had been big. Focused, but big. They had been about taking out as much stuff as possible. But this one needed to be small: if it fried anything more than the camera and the light, they’d probably figure out it was him.
He felt the familiar pins-and-need
les in his feet and fingers and the sensation of movement through his body and up to that point behind his eyes, building and almost crackling in his skull.
How had he ever believed that this was normal?
The thought was a distraction and the energy behind his eyes dissipated.
“Shit.”
He took a deep breath and started again, concentrating only on the crackling movement through his body, following it in his mind’s eye as it gathered and grew in strength. Then he held his breath and blinked once.
Sam kept his eyes tight shut until the sensation of shimmering electricity had vanished once more. Then he opened them slowly.
It was dark—the light was out. That was a relief, but had he destroyed the camera too? And if he had, was the damage limited to those two things? There was no way of knowing, and he couldn’t risk getting up until he knew.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Just five minutes before the door was yanked open and two men bustled in. One lit the way with a flashlight, while the other carried a ladder and a light bulb. He set up the ladder and stomped up.
“Shh!” said the one with the flashlight.
“What for? That kid’s probably no better ‘n a vegetable.”
“You don’t know that. Phil told me that Dr. Robinson thinks he’s fine.”
The man on the ladder grunted his disbelief, unscrewed the old bulb and replaced it with the new one. Nothing happened.
“Is it switched on?” he asked.
“Of course it is. It’s always switched on. It’s probably the bulb.”
“Yeah. I don’t know why they still have these piece of shit old lights anyway. Let’s look at the camera.”
He dragged the ladder over to the corner of the room.
“Hand me the flashlight.”
Sam watched through half-closed eyes as the man examined the camera.
“It looks fine.”
“Yeah, well it’s not. Watchtower says it’s down. No static, just black.”
“I’ll have to check it out back in the shop. Yet another pre-collapse piece of junk. Why do they expect these things to keep working? They’re the fucking scientists, they should come up with something new that we can actually use.”
Sam heard the sound of a screwdriver rasping on old threads as the man released the camera from its bracket before handing the flashlight back to his coworker, folding the ladder and stalking out, still muttering about old technology. The second man sighed and followed, closing the door with a gentle click.
Sam waited for a while, then threw back the covers, sat up, and swung his legs out and onto the floor. He stood up slowly, his legs shaking. He felt weak, but everything seemed to be working again. He walked towards a doorway on the far side. A short curtain was pulled across the opening and Sam was pretty sure it was a bathroom.
He leaned on the door jamb and yanked the curtain back. He was right. There was a toilet, a sink, and a shower. He longed for a good hot shower, but it would have to wait—no point in tipping his hand too early. He settled for running some water into the sink and splashing his face. It felt good.
Now for the door.
He was pretty sure it wasn’t locked, but he needed to know for sure. He felt his way unsteadily along the wall until he reached the handle, then turned it slowly.
The door clicked and opened. He smiled, but it was at that moment that his legs finally gave out and he crumpled to the floor. He needed to work. He had to get his strength back if he was going to stand any chance of getting out of this snake pit.
He pushed the door closed and reached for the handle to pull himself up, but he felt something else: long indentations stretching down from the handle. He ran his fingertips over them. There were a lot, but there was a pattern…and he knew what it was. He lay his hand flat on the surface. The indentations matched his fingers exactly.
Someone else had been here.
And they’d tried to claw their way out.
Chapter 18
THE NEXT MORNING BETHANY dragged a small table into the room, set it next to the bed and put a small lamp on it.
“That’s better!” she said, smiling happily at Sam. “It’s not nice to be in the dark, is it?”
She skipped out and returned with his breakfast, then perched on the edge of the chair and began feeding him. Sam dutifully ate the food, his mind still focused on the scratches. Now that he knew they were there he could see them clearly, thrown into sharp relief by the lamp, like random furrows on a field.
“Bethany…” he whispered, finally.
She nearly fell off her chair.
“You spoke! I’ll get the doctor!”
“No!” Sam reached out and grabbed her arm. “Please!”
She looked at his hand on her arm with alarm, followed by confusion.
“But…how long have you been able to move?”
“Since yesterday. Bethany, I need to get out of here.”
“Why? And why don’t you want to talk to the doctor?”
“Because I was brought here against my will.”
“But…I don’t understand. They want to make you better.”
“Right. The only reason I’m ill is because they gave the Rovers some wacked out drug to immobilize me and then the idiots just poured the whole lot down my throat.”
“The doctor was very angry about that. I heard her yelling at one of the men that brought you. But she made you better, so it’s alright.”
Sam looked at her, with her golden hair and wide blue eyes, and realized that she wasn’t quite all there. If he was going to get her to help he’d need to be very careful indeed.
“Who are ‘they’?” he asked, making his voice as gentle as he could under the circumstances.
“The doctors.”
“Is this a hospital?”
“No,” she said, smiling. “It’s Hermes Industries. Well, Hermes Industries Research. The proper Hermes Industries is in Seattle City.”
“So I’m in San Francisco City?”
“Yes. We have the prettiest building. It’s ten stories high and shines like silver.”
“Is this room on the tenth floor?” He was pretty sure it wouldn’t be, but it seemed the best way of getting the information.
“No!” She laughed a pretty, tinkling laugh. “The tenth floor is for the executives. No one else is allowed up there. You’re in the basement with the others. I suppose that once they’ve made you well they’ll give you your own room with them. I think it would be a fine thing to have your own room.”
“Wait…What others?”
“The others like you. They bring them here and fix them and then they get their own rooms.”
Sam didn’t like the sound of that one bit.
“They fix them?”
Bethany nodded.
“And their rooms are…where?”
“Down the hall. Down the Sam corridor.”
“Down the—?”
“Sam corridor. It’s where all the Sams go. And they have their own rooms. I’d really like a room of my own. D’you think they might let me have one if I asked nicely?”
“I don’t…um…probably,” muttered Sam, his blood chilling in his veins.
This whole thing was sounding worse and worse.
“Um…Bethany, do you know where my clothes are?”
“Yes, they’re in there.” She nodded toward the bathroom. “That’s a bathroom. They’re in the cupboard. Do you want any more breakfast?”
Sam smiled, then sat up, took the bowl from her and ate the food. If he was going to have any chance of getting out of this, he’d need every scrap of energy he could muster.
“You’re very kind, Bethany.”
She beamed and stood up.
“Bethany?” He took her hand and looked straight into her pretty, empty eyes. “Don’t tell Dr. Robinson or anyone else that I’m okay. I’d like it to be a surprise. Would that be alright?”
“Oh, yes! She’ll be so pleased. I won’t say a wor
d, I promise.”
“Great.” He handed her the bowl and smiled again. “See you later.”
She grinned and practically skipped out of the door. Sam lay back down on the bed and reviewed the situation. The marks on the door were a clear indication that he needed to get out of there and put as much distance as he could between himself and San Francisco, but it seemed clear from Dr. Robinson’s remarks that she, at least, knew what was going on with his head. Although, now that he thought about it, he hadn’t felt so much as a twinge since he’d been here. Which was weird, really, because HIR had created Mutha, so you’d expect their facility to be absolutely buzzing, in every sense of the word.
The first thing to do, would be to find these “others” that had their own rooms nearby. If they really were the same as him, then maybe they could work together to escape. Sam had a feeling that he’d need all the help he could get if he was going to have a hope in hell’s chance of busting out.
He also needed to get his muscles functioning again, so he spent the next few days working out whenever possible, snatching the hours between the visits of Robinson and Bethany to regain his pre-phyrozene strength, while continuing to conceal as much of his recovery as he could.
By the end of the week he felt well enough to take on all comers, but the problem of escape loomed large. This was all kind of new. Back in the Wilds he’d managed to avoid most kinds of trouble, or the kinds that resulted in incarceration, at any rate. One visit to Century City—that’s all it had taken. One visit, and he’d been tossed into three cells.
He lay back on the bed and wondered what Alma was doing, and whether she was okay. He hoped she was, but not as much as he wished she’d walk through the door right now.
Unfortunately, it was Dr. Robinson who marched in, her shoes clicking on the floor and her smile firmly in place.
“Well, now!” she gushed. “And how’s my favorite patient feeling today?”
“Okay,” whispered Sam, as if he were still having difficulty speaking. “My arms and legs are moving better.”
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