Chapter Eight: Enemies
I miss school the next day, a result of more tests and drugs at the hospital. All I can think about is how life betrayed me; how it lifted me up with hope that something good could come from my condition before dropping me to suffer the infinite cruelty of fate.
Her father. Of all people, Jessica's father has developed the drug that makes me more isolated from the world than ever. He never wanted to cure anyone like me. I had heard it from his mouth. He wanted his daughter to have a normal life. I am the opposite of normal, and his motivation is obviously as his results show. To keep his daughter free of the Virus. I am the Virus. Stupid doctors.
When Tuesday morning comes, I'm still sulking as I check out at the front desk and step onto the shuttle. I hadn't known Jessica when I had fought so hard to attend high school. Reaching that goal had meant that perhaps I could resume a part of living. The crushing blow on Sunday had taken that future away from me. My classes feel boring and worthless now. I'm not paying attention on my way to Art and bump into someone as I'm walking.
“Hey, jerk!” the big body yells as he whips around. It's Tyson.
“I'm sorry,” I say. I wave toward him and slide away to resume my walk to class. I cinch my backpack tight.
The warning bell rings. I've got two minutes before I'm late.
“Where you going?” asks Tyson.
“I've got to get to class,” I say. “Sorry.”
A hand grabs my wrist and he's there again, hovering over me.
“Dead man walking,” someone yells behind him.
The kids around us snicker.
I try wrenching my arm away, but Tyson's grip is too strong. Some of my flesh burns me and peels away.
“Gross! Zombie boy bled on me.” Tyson drops his grip and flings his fingers toward the crowd that is forming in the hall.
A couple girls scream and some of the kids dart away, shoving the others as they exit. Suddenly there’s panic and yelling. One girl faints.
“Look what you've done, freak,” Tyson tells me.
I shake my head, unwilling to apologize. I need to get to class. I don't want detention.
“Hey. Where you going?”
Before I can escape, someone has shoved me from behind. I smash into the wall and taste blood on my lip. I duck low to avoid what I think will be a strike to my head. I'm right. Tyson smashes the brick, yelling in pain as I scramble away.
“Freak.” Tyson chases me and shoves me again.
This time, I fall to the ground. He steps on my back and I feel the cover of my tablet crack between his foot and my back.
“I'm sorry, Tyson,” I say. “I just want to get to class.”
“You don't belong here, freak,” he tells me. “You don't belong anywhere.”
“Except a graveyard,” someone says.
There's more shoving and pushing and I'm in the middle of it. I feel flesh from my arms being torn away. My body feels hotter and hotter. I don't want to fight and clench my fists to fight the pain. Another shove into the wall, this time I hit a locker. I feel the metal bend around my shoulder.
“Stop it,” I say. I wipe my face. I'm bleeding.
Everyone is far back now, but no one has gone to class, despite the tardy bell. Tyson takes another shot at me. I shove his arm to the side and strike his face. And smile. Now I'm in my hospital room again, hitting and striking the dummy given to me to control my condition. With a thousand punches and kicks, I shock Tyson and the students around us. The workout is exhilarating, but I don't feel like myself. I'm hot, and dizzy, and angry. Someone is screaming.
“Stop. Stop!” Mr. Todd waves his arms in front of me. He has two school guards with him. They shove me back, forcing me into the wall. I'm done now, finished with my exercise, and I see what I've done to Tyson. He's crouched on the floor, bleeding from his head and his arms. He's yelling in pain. Everyone else is silent and staring.
“Go to class now.” Mr. Todd clears the hall with one resonating order.
In a flurry of commotion, like a stampede of elephants, the student body clears and leaves us alone. The zombie, two guards, Mr. Todd, and Tyson. Nurse Jennings arrives, makes a frightened glance at me, and then attends to Tyson. He's bleeding through his shirt.
The ceiling moves from side to side, then it swirls. I'm spinning. I see lights. I hear sirens. Paramedics run into the school and wheel Tyson out on a stretcher. I'm held in place until police arrive. These aren't the usual cops in uniforms with handcuffs. These cops are dressed in black with SWAT embroidered on their shoulder patches. The men smother me, each grabbing an arm or leg, and carry me out to a dark van. I curse a protest as they shove me into the back.
~ O ~
It's dark in the room and colder than most. Blinking lights of two cameras in the corner announce that somewhere, someone is watching me. I crouch around my knees and cradle my arms. One of them is still bleeding and the skin peels open and closed like a flap, exposing the mechanics underneath. No nurses come. It's only me, steel walls, and the comfort of a cold cement floor.
I expect someone to enter, some detective or authority announcing his presence with a long title. I'm in trouble, I know that, but this was only a fight and I was defending myself. Once I tell my side of the story, I'll be sent back to the hospital.
But no one comes. It's nighttime. I know this because my body feels week. I feel like my energy is draining like water from a faucet. I'm dangerous this way and hope someone realizes that. I need to eat; otherwise I will become a monster.
My thoughts drift toward Jessica. I wonder if I'll see her again. I wonder what the news will say about me now, and how she'll react. I stare at the blinking lights until they turn into menacing eyes, like a demon calling me in silence—and sleep.
~ O ~
“You've caused quite a mess, Ryan.” Mr. Jackson, my lawyer, wakes me. He's standing at the door with a policeman on each side. “Would you like to see the video?”
“Video?” I rub the sleep from my eyes. The cold floor has been cruel to me; my knees crack when I try to stand.
Mr. Jackson comes closer and kneels. He activates the screen on his tablet. “If you wanted attention, you should have called me first. I would have arranged a press conference.”
I don't understand until the video starts to play. It's shaky and obviously taken from a phone—someone at school. There I am, backed against the locker. It's like watching a memory, only from someone else's eyes. I attack Tyson over and over, punching him so fast that I can't believe I’m staring at myself on the screen. In a matter of only a few seconds I've knocked him against the wall, thrown him across the hall, shoved him to the ground, and have beat him with my fists hundreds of times. Tyson screams and the video cuts to black. I manage to see the count before Mr. Jackson shuts off the tablet. Seven million views.
“I don't need to ask if that is you,” he says, “but I'm hoping for a miracle. Is it?”
“I didn't start the fight, sir. I was trying to get to class.”
“Well, that student you destroyed might never step foot in your school again.”
I look up.
“Three broken ribs, a concussion, and a lot of internal bleeding. He'll spend at least six weeks recovering.”
I look at my bleeding arm and then at my hands. I did that? Mr. Jackson seems to have heard my question because he's already answering.
“You did.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, the same way he always used to when telling me things were going to get worse. “I can't fix this, Ryan,” he says. “But I'll do the best I can.” He steps up and peers down at me. That's when I notice his eyes are bloodshot. He must have had a long night. “I think you can forget about high school.”
“Sir?”
He shakes his head. “You saw the video. No one in the state will let you within a mile of that place again.”
“That's not fair. I didn't start the fight.”
“When has life ever been fair to you?” Mr. Jackson wipes his
forehead with a handkerchief. “They're going to keep you here until I can get things sorted out. Be nice. Don't give anyone a reason to make this worse.” He looks at the guards. “And I want unedited copies of the surveillance from this room.”
The door closes and I'm alone again.
I think about flipping off the camera, to thank the world for its kindness, but I decide better. My life is over. Everything I've worked for the past two years is gone in a few seconds of online video. There's no home, no Stanford, no high school, and no Jessica. People who protest, saying the dead have no feelings are wrong. This hurts and it hurts a lot. I punch the wall, denting the steel, and then crouch in the center of the room and wait.
~ O ~
It feels like several hours before I see anyone again. Two cops with guns drawn stand at each side of the door. They're followed by a nurse pushing a small cart. She's shaking and won't look me in the eyes as she approaches. I let her examine me and don't make a fuss about the shot she gives me in my damaged arm. After handing me a couple pills and a paper cup full of water, she leaves a plate of meat.
I'm midway through the food when the walls of the room go blurry. She's given me more than medicine. I try to scramble to the door, but everything spins and my world goes black before I make it to my feet.
~ O ~
When I wake, I can't move my arms or legs. There's a band across my forehead, keeping me from looking around, and a strap over my mouth. I stare at the tiles in the ceiling. I don't recognize this place. A door opens and people march around me like soldiers. Only their not dressed like soldiers. They're wearing scrubs like at the hospital. Seven masked faces look down at me.
“Good morning, Mister Moon,” one of them says.
I glare back because I recognize the eyes from TV. It's the devil. That masked man may be covered up, but it's him, I know it. Dr. Snow, Jessica's father. I squirm and twist and fight the bonds that hold me down. The table I'm on shakes under my efforts, but I'm unable to move. I yell, wanting to shatter the walls with my anger, though the binding muffles my voice and I can barely breathe.
“We're going to keep you like this for a while,” says Dr. Snow. He stares at me, searching for something. “Until you're ready to cooperate.” He seems to find what he's after and his eyes go wide. He turns as if he's leaving, then stops and peers back at me. “It's good to finally meet you.”
Chapter Nine: Conditions
Dr. Snow and his staff leave me strapped onto the table for several days. No one brings me food, but a constant flow of warm fluid pumps through tubes injected into my injured arm. Though the drugs go straight to my veins, I can taste them, I can feel them. I don't crave, not like I used to, and the metallic aftertaste makes me feel like someone has placed an old penny in my mouth. The lights stay on and the next time someone comes close enough for me to see, they're wearing a plastic face shield.
“Your attorney has come to see you,” says a woman with dark eyes while leaning over me. Her voice is distorted from the shield. “You may speak, but don't make us rebind you.” She adjusts one strap and my lips throb as the pressure over my mouth leaves.
I'm gasping for air as the woman steps back.
“Hello, Ryan.” Mr. Jackson takes her place. “Are you being kept well?”
I want to shake my head for emphasis, but I still can't move it. “No,” I try to say. My voice is dry and I cough violently from my effort. I swallow and try again. “No.”
“This doesn't look comfortable.”
“Where am I?” I ask.
“A clinic." His voice is so calm, so casual. He's speaking to me as if we were sitting in one of my hearings. But we're not. "You're being evaluated," he adds.
I try to shake my head again, forgetting that I can't, and feel the skin under my hair pull and twist. “It's not a clinic,” I protest. “Where's Dr. Snow?”
Mr. Jackson raises his eyebrows, seemingly impressed at my knowledge. “He's the head of the facility here, Ryan. He petitioned to move you from jail.”
“Send me back.”
“You don't want that.”
I shake the cart, trying to free my arms. “I want to go home. I don't know what this place is, but I don't like it.”
Mr. Jackson steps away, leaving me to stare at the ceiling. There's shuffling and some whispering that I can't make out. He leans over me again. “It's this or a trial, Ryan. I don't recommend the trial.”
“A trial?” I want to yell, but the bindings around my chest are so tight I can't get enough breath in my lungs to build a loud expression. “For what?”
“Attempted murder.”
“I told you what happened. I didn't start the fight.”
“There are a hundred witnesses who say otherwise.” He leans closer and whispers. “I'm doing the best I can, but there's panic right now. There's talk that the Breytazine Act should be revoked. That video of you makes a compelling case.”
“I don't care. I don't want to be in here. Do what you can, what you've always done, and get me out of here.”
Mr. Jackson shakes his head and frowns. “I'm here for you, Ryan. You know I am. But we don't have many options.”
His words linger in my head as he disappears and I'm left staring at the ceiling. No one returns to apply the cover on my mouth and the lights turn off, leaving me in darkness and worry.
~ O ~
The next time I wake, I'm lying on a bed in a small sterile room. I'm no longer bound. I lean forward to stand, but my legs collapse as soon as I put weight on them. I face plant onto the tile floor. I push myself up and try again, but it's no use; my legs aren't working. Bleeding from my nose, I crawl back onto the mattress and stare at the ceiling. What's happened to me?
As if having heard my struggle, Dr. Snow opens the door at the far end of the room and strolls gauntly inside. “Hello, Mr. Moon,” he says, closing it behind him. “How are you feeling?”
“What have you done to my legs?” I lean forward which makes Dr. Snow grip the door handle behind him.
“The legs feed the animal,” he answers. “Without them, you're not a danger to my staff.” With a wry smile, he steps toward me. “Or would you rather the bindings?”
I think about the past few days and rub my wrists. The straps have left them bruised and sore. I shake my head.
“Good.” Dr. Snow slides a silver metal chair from the corner and sits in front of me. He's older than he appeared on television. He is wrinkled around the eyes and he's balding, though it's apparent he's trying to hide it by shaving his head.
I ambush him with the foremost question on my mind. “Why am I here?”
“I think we can help each other, Mr. Moon,” he answers. “You get to stay out of prison and I—”
“Keep me away from your daughter.” I interrupt him mid-sentence.
Dr. Snow's eyes widen. “You are smart.” He wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket and smiles, as if something is giving him satisfaction. “I think we'll get along fine.”
I shake my head and turn to the wall. “I don't think so.”
The man chuckles and then returns his chair to the corner by sliding it across the tile, filling the room with a high pitched screech that makes my spine twitch. “We both have something the other needs,” he says to me. He pries the door open. “Only you don't realize it yet.”
The door slams shut behind him, cutting the shrill and replacing it with a hollow silence. I glare at the door. I hate this man more than I did the moment I saw him on the news.
I try to lift my legs and the hate grows. Who does something like that; take the strength out of someone's legs to keep them captive? The legs feed the animal. I growl as I hear his voice in my head. The animal's legs never killed the prey, I think. It's their bite.
~ O ~
Later that day, a woman dressed like a nurse brings me a tray of meat. She stands calmly and waits while I eat, never turning away. When I finish, she leaves as silently, leaving me to wonder again what they've done to my l
egs. There are no marks, so I haven't had surgery. I bend my knees and wiggle my toes to prove I'm intact. I'm not paralyzed. But my legs won't let me stand. I slam the bedpost, rocking the bed into the wall.
A man brings a wheelchair into my room and parks at the side of my bed. He doesn't say anything, but the quick release needles of Daphenine attached to his belt announce clearly to me that he won't have to. I know better than to disobey whatever order he plans to give. The man motions to the wheelchair, then he helps me into the seat and wheels me out the door, allowing me my first view of the clinic. Bright lights replace the too often broken ones I'm used to at the hospital, and every door has a keypad entry and a camera. The man's security card is checked before we're allowed to pass through.
I'm taken to a room filled with stainless steel cupboards, bright lights, and another camera. The man locks the wheels of my wheelchair and leaves me alone. I try moving, but my transport won't budge, so instead I stare at the camera and wonder who is watching. After a few minutes, a woman covered in an orange plastic suit enters. She glances at me as if I was a permanent object in the room and strolls over to a counter where she collects a syringe and a handful of vials.
I'm about to let myself fall to the floor and attempt to crawl away when the door opens again. Dr. Snow appears, followed by a woman carrying a clipboard.
“Mr. Moon, this is Janice,” says Dr. Snow, as casually as if I were a neighbor or relative. “She has some papers for you to sign. Then we can begin.”
“I'm not signing anything,” I tell him. “Talk to my lawyer.”
Dr. Snow waves away my comment. “I have spoken with him. He has advised us not to begin any tests without your authorization. I know you're eager to see Jessica.”
Mention of her name catches my attention. “She's here?” I ask.
Dead and Beloved Page 6