by Chris Mooney
She wasn't dead, or even hovering close to it, and yet they were keeping her locked up inside this quarantine chamber straight out of a sci-fi movie: blue-padded walls, floor and ceiling; stainless-steel sink and a private toilet and shower stall. Anything that left the room — her hospital scrubs, magazines, food scraps and paper plates, cups and plastic utensils — was wrapped and sealed inside a bright red biohazard bag.
The dizziness, at least the worst of it, had passed. Darby slid off the bed and made her way across the padded floor in her bare feet, hearing the now familiar mechanical whine coming from the pair of security cameras turning to track her. These cameras monitored her movements, even at night when she went to use the toilet.
She reached the console and picked up the phone.
'Yes, Miss McCormick?' a male voice asked. She didn't recognize it.
'What time is it?'
'Almost noon. Are you hungry? I can bring you — '
'I want to speak to Sergeant-Major Glick.'
'I'm sorry, but he's unavailable right now.'
'I was told he would return today.'
'He did, early this morning. He came by but you were asleep.'
'Why didn't he wake me up?'
'Doctors' orders.'
'I want to speak to him. Now.'
'Sergeant-Major Glick is involved in — '
'In a matter that has required him to be out of the office for an indefinite period of time,' Darby finished for him. Everyone here kept reciting the same party line. 'He's carrying a cell phone with him, right?'
'I… well, I would assume so.'
'I want you to connect me to him.'
'I can't transfer your call. We don't have that sort of equipment.'
'Then bring a phone to me.'
'A cell phone won't work in here.'
'Then connect a landline.'
'I'm afraid your room isn't equipped. The phone you're speaking on right now is wired to come straight to the security console.'
'Fine. Have someone take me to a phone.'
'I'm sorry, but I can't do that until we know you're not infected.'
Darby felt an itch spark deep inside her head, right around the place where her spine connected to her brain stem. She squeezed the receiver, wanting to crush it.
'You and I both know I'm not infected.'
'These tests take time, Miss McCormick. We still don't know what you were exposed to, and until we do we need to monitor — '
'Who's your second in command?'
'Second in command? I don't understand what — '
'The army's running this place, right?'
No answer.
'I want to speak to someone in charge,' Darby said. 'Now.'
'I'll forward your request, but, as you already know, we're not allowed to speak to you about the New Hampshire incident. Maybe you should ask the FBI. I can call them for you.'
Darby had already spoken to the two agents sent over from the Boston office, a pair of Irish boys named Connolly and Kelly. They stood in the white-tiled room beyond the Plexiglas barrier, writing down her statement while asking questions through a two-way speaker. They claimed to have no knowledge of the investigation happening up north, in the Granite State, and promised to send along someone to answer her questions.
That was four days ago. Maybe five, it was hard to remember.
Darby switched the phone to her other ear. 'What's your name?'
'Howard.'
'And what do you do here, Howie?'
'Me?' He chuckled. 'I'm just a lowly medical technician.'
'Okay, Howie, I want you to pass along a message. The next person who enters my room is going to be carrying my medical file and all of my blood work results. Said person is going to hand those to me and then sit down and answer my questions — all of my questions, including everything that's happening in New Hampshire. If this doesn't happen, Howie, not only will this person not be getting any more of my blood, he — or she — will have to crawl out of here. Do you understand?'
'I understand your frustration — I honestly do — but you need to — '
'Do we have an understanding, Howie?'
'I'll pass your message along. Now, about lunch, would you like — '
Darby hung up and went back to lying on her bed, wondering just how long she'd have to wait until someone came to speak to her.
And what if they can't or won't answer your questions? What are you going to do?
Then she'd have to deliver on her promise.
Her thoughts shifted to the man she had cuffed to a tree in the woods — the thing with the veiny egg-white skin, missing teeth and tongue. There was no way he could have got loose by himself. Someone had cut him loose, either one of his buddies who had been near by, watching; or one of Glick's hazmat people. Maybe even Glick himself.
And that black plastic device I found sewn into his back… just what the hell was that thing? Some sort of tracking device?
It was maddening to wonder.
Now she saw the man claiming to be Charlie. Saw his mask of dried human skin with its cut-out eyeholes and mouth, the sutures attached to horribly scarred but healthy skin belonging not to a man claiming to be Charlie Rizzo but to Charlie Rizzo himself, the boy born with missing nipples who had disappeared all those years ago and who now, seemingly for no reason, had reappeared back in his family's house to hold them hostage.
No, there was a reason.
Charlie — and he was Charlie Rizzo, she could feel it deep in her gut — Charlie had called 911 and requested SWAT and a bulletproof vehicle. He dumped a body in the shrubs, and when she asked him who that man was, he said, I'm hoping you'll find out. That's why I gave him to you. Charlie wanted her to go inside the house alone so she could bear witness to his father's confession. What had Charlie said to his father? Here it was: I want you to tell Dr McCormick why I'm here… Don't be shy, Daddy. Start with the day I was abducted.
Mark Rizzo never explained — no, that wasn't true, he said, This thing is not my son. She took down Charlie and tear gas flooded the bedroom and then the people dressed as SWAT officers stormed inside the house. They hadn't come for Charlie; they killed him along with the rest of his family.
But not the father. They took Mark Rizzo… where? To the same place Charlie had been living all those years? And why had they allowed Charlie to remain alive all that time? What was the purpose?
You're assuming there is a purpose.
Maybe not a purpose, but there was a reason.
As it turned out, Darby didn't have to wait long. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the steel airtight door hissing open.
18
The person standing outside her Plexiglas door, dressed head to toe in a thick white biohazard suit, wore the same accoutrements everyone else did when they came into her room: gloves that ran up to the elbows; an M95 gas mask that covered the face, ran over one shoulder and down the spine, and connected to a lithium-battery air purifier/respirator. It rested against the small of the person's back, on a belt.
At this distance, Darby couldn't see a face through the clear visor but she suspected her latest visitor was a man, based on the height and width of the shoulders. The man waved an ID card across the keycard reader, then punched in a code. A stainless-steel tray rested against his hip and was held in place by the other gloved hand. She saw a stethoscope, glass vials, empty tubes and needles covered by plastic tips.
A slight whine as the security cameras turned to the man entering her room. Darby crossed her hands behind her head and watched as he lumbered across like an astronaut navigating the terrain of a strange planet.
He placed the tray on the foot of her bed. The cameras' whine disappeared, replaced by silence. She looked at his respirator pack.
'How are you feeling this morning, Miss McCormick?'
The man had an effeminate voice and she detected a slight lisp. She looked up at his clear visor and saw the dark blue eyes underneath thick eyebrows that formed o
ne big hairy caterpillar.
'Have we met?'
'No,' he said, uncapping the plastic tip of a needle. 'Any problems breathing?'
'Are you a doctor?'
'I am. Tell me about your breathing. Have you been experiencing any — '
'Do you have a name?'
'Dr Jerkins.'
'Like the hand lotion.'
'Yes. Now please, about your breathing.'
'My breathing is fine. My vision is fine. No nausea.'
'What about problems swallowing?'
'Now that you mention it, yes.'
He looked up from the tray, his eyes bright with interest. The human guinea pig had a symptom.
'I'm having trouble swallowing this bullshit about you people not knowing what I was exposed to,' Darby said calmly. It irritated her, having to maintain this calm pleasantness. She forced a smile, then added calmly: 'And please don't feed me the line about how you're still running tests. You've been drawing blood for days and you've refused to tell me the name of this sedative you keep injecting into my system. My head feels like it's gone a few rounds with Chris Brown.'
'Chris Brown?'
'Rihanna's boyfriend. You know, the pop singer. He beat the shit out of her. It was all over the news.'
'I'm afraid I missed it. In any case, that lethargy you're feeling is one of the side effects from the sedative we gave you to manage the pain from your fractured ribs, and to make sure you didn't go into respiratory distress.'
'Which brings us back to the original question, which I'll ask for the last time. What was I exposed to, Dr Jerkins?'
'It appears you were exposed to sarin gas.'
'Appears?'
'Your blood work is inconclusive, which is why we've — '
'What about the bodies in New Hampshire? Did you take blood samples?'
'We did. They died of sarin gas exposure. Sarin gas, Miss McCormick, is a nerve agent originally developed by the Germans as — '
'As a pesticide,' Darby finished for him. 'Sarin gas is clear, colourless and odourless. It can exist on a person's clothing for up to half an hour, which explains why I was immediately decontaminated. Exposure to the gas, or even a small drop of liquid on the skin, results in loss of consciousness, convulsions, paralysis and then respiratory failure.'
'In layman's terms, yes, you're correct. But, as I was trying to explain before you interrupted me, we keep drawing blood to make sure you haven't been exposed. And these tests take time, Miss McCormick. I know you believe we're stalling you, but I can assure you this is not the case.'
Dr Jenkins turned back to the tray. He picked up the uncapped syringe and stuck the needle into a glass vial. Demerol, a narcotic pain medication used to treat moderate-to-severe pain. No wonder why her head felt like it had been beaten. She always had bad reactions to Demerol.
'I don't want a shot,' she said.
'You need it.'
'I can deal with the pain.'
'Yes, I'm sure you can. You seem to have a very high threshold. But we're more concerned about coughing. You've been coughing during the night, and if you cough hard enough, it could refracture one or more of your ribs. That's where the Demerol will help.'
He placed the syringe back on the tray and picked up an alcohol swab packaged in foil.
'I want to see copies of my blood work,' Darby said.
'Sergeant-Major Glick will have to authorize that. He's detained at the moment, but he wanted me to tell you he'll speak to you as soon as he arrives later this evening.'
'You spoke to him?'
'The man you spoke to over the intercom did. He promised to come here and answer all of your questions.' He removed the swab from the foil and then turned to examine her arms. 'I think we should use the right one this time. The left is looking rather bruised.'
'No injection until I see my blood work.'
'Miss McCormick, it's vital for your health — '
'And it's vital for your health, Dr Jerkins, that you stay right where you are.' Darby smiled politely. 'Touch me and you'll be wearing your balls as earrings. Might be a good look for you, since I don't know which way you swing — no offence.'
He studied her, trying to determine whether she was serious or blowing off steam.
'Be reasonable,' he said, with a small vibration in his voice.
He took a step closer. 'This will be over in just a moment.'
19
The doctor grabbed her wrist. With her left hand Darby grabbed his index finger and swiftly bent it backwards, breaking it at the bottom of the digit.
The man howled. He clutched his wrist and stared at the broken finger as he staggered away. He hit the wall and tumbled sideways to the floor.
An alarm sounded, loud and piercing. Bright red lights started blinking from the walls.
Darby hopped off the bed. The doctor was lying on his back, howling. She straddled him. He tried striking at her with his good hand. She slapped it away and grabbed him by the throat, pinning him to the floor.
'Exposure to any nerve agent, especially sarin gas, results in immediate symptoms,' she yelled over the alarm. 'If I had been infected, not only would I have shown symptoms by now, you would have remembered to turn on your respirator before coming into my room.'
She ripped the mask off his face and said, 'Tell me why you're keeping me locked up in here.'
He sucked in air, his face a mottled red. He said something but she couldn't hear him over the alarm.
'What was that?' she yelled, leaning closer.
'Orders,' he gasped.
'Whose orders?'
'Please,' he begged. 'Please.'
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a flash of movement.
Darby looked up and saw two men, one tall and white with a blond crew cut, the other a burly Hispanic man with a shaved head, standing beyond the Plexiglas door. Both wore suits, ties and sidearms on their hips; she saw the slight bulge underneath their jackets.
Feds.
The tall white guy with the crew cut waved a badge in front of the keycard reader. Darby got to her feet. She started running as the door opened.
Crew Cut thought he could grab her and toss her against the floor. He came at her with both hands and she knocked them away, then raked him across the face with her elbow. She heard his nose break before his head snapped back. As his hands flew to his face, she planted her knee deep in his groin and turned to the Hispanic guy, who was reaching underneath his suit jacket.
Darby hit him once in the solar plexus, throwing all of her weight behind the punch. His breath caught in his throat. He tried sucking in air and when he turned she landed two solid shots to his kidneys.
Weeping came from behind her. She turned and saw the doc huddled in the corner of the room, staring at his broken finger. Crew Cut was lying sideways on the blue-padded floor, gagging up blood. It spilled down his chest, covering his shirt and two-dollar tie. He coughed and spat up blood. While she was dealing with his partner, Crew Cut had somehow managed to release his sidearm, a nine, and was pointing it at her.
Not a nine. The shape of the handgun was wrong, the magazine long and fat.
A puff of air and something sharp pierced her thigh.
A dart.
Darby pulled it free. The dart tip was gone, stuck in her thigh muscle, burning as it dissolved. He'd shot her with a tranquillizer, like she was some sort of unruly zoo animal.
Maybe I am, she thought, her knees starting to feel watery. They've got to keep me tamed. They've been pumping drugs into me to keep me tame. They want to keep me here, they don't want to let me go just yet because… they… because…
She suddenly became aware of her body, of her accelerating heart pumping the drug through her system, flushing her skin. Crew Cut was no longer interested in her. He had stumbled to his feet and now had the wall phone gripped in his hand, saying something about bringing a gurney around to the front — at least that was what she thought he was saying. The man's voice sounded garbled, as though
she were listening to him from deep under water.
They're not wearing biohazard gear, she thought.
Then: I'm not infected — I never was infected.
The room's colours grew brighter, more intense. Darby saw Crew Cut swipe the back of his hand across his shattered nose. He examined the blood, bright red and gleaming underneath the overhead lights, and listened to whoever was speaking on the other end of the line as she tumbled against the padded floor, the room spinning her into darkness.
20
When Darby's eyes fluttered open, everything appeared blurry, as if her vision was coated with Vaseline. And her head, Jesus, her head felt as heavy as a sandbag, and it was hanging suspended over her lap. She had a vague sense of something biting into the skin around her wrists and ankles, of something wrapped tightly around both biceps.
It took a few minutes of blinking to clear away the filmy layer.
The first thing she noticed was the string of drool hanging from her mouth. She had collected quite a puddle on the lap of her hospital johnnies or scrubs or whatever they were. On the dark blue fabric covering her thigh she spotted a tiny hole from the tranquillizer dart and, surrounding it, a dried patch of blood the size of a half-dollar.
They had bound her to a wheelchair. Thick Velcro straps were wrapped around her wrists and biceps to keep her from toppling off her seat. The same straps, she suspected, were wrapped around her ankles and shins.
Lifting her head — slowly, she reminded herself, do it slowly — she heard popping sounds in her shoulders and neck. When she finally sat up, the muscles in her back and shoulders sighed in relief. Her right hand, though, was throbbing. Swollen and cut from punching the feds.
They had moved her into a new room, small, everything white, including the empty desk and chair.
No security cameras on the wall facing her. She looked over her shoulder, the muscles groaning in protest, and didn't see any cameras on the walls. Nobody stood behind her. No clock anywhere.
Darby stretched her neck and moved her shoulders to get the blood flowing. She wondered why she'd been placed in here and not back in her room.