As he explored his predicament he again felt the wasp sting in the back of his wrist. That wasn’t, he now recognized, an insect, accidentally released into the blacked-out room. It was a needle, probably attached to some chemical delivery system. They were drugging him. Hell, he thought, they think in clichés—pain followed by what—hallucinations? He was confident he could handle that. His failure to react might be cause for someone to come and check him. He focused on the pain point. He could block the needle—that was something the nanites could readily achieve. He might have to suffer first, before the nanites were in full deployment. He shuddered.
Why, he wondered, was the previously blackened room now a swirl of lights? Faint and distant sounds were now ear-shatteringly near and excessively loud. It was as though he had been dropped into the midst of a furious clamor of metallic presses, each trying to outdo the other with the volume and discordance of their sounds. He spun, the center of a spiral, sharp colors piercing his eyes. He tried to close them. His muscles—his eyelids—would not respond. The vortex altered its shape and he realized it was a spinning propeller, moving closer and closer. He sunk down to the hub, the razor sharp blades slicing his head, his mind, his brain, even his body, into millions of tiny pieces. He fought to focus, trying to override the strange visions. Perspiration ran down the side of his face, out of reach.
His captors were, he was certain, exploring his genetic enhancements, measuring his reaction and recovery times. His heartbeat, respiration, possibly level of muscle spasms, and other measures were being charted to show how long he was out of action. Damn, he thought, that’s another challenge. He needed to control his reactive functions to thoroughly confuse whoever was conducting experiments on his body. It was going to be an interesting day and it was still, he thought, early morning.
“I want later memories—tell me about the laboratory.” The voice was adamant, commanding.
He fought back and failed.
He reached the house without misadventure and climbed the front stairs to the entry porch. He tugged off a glove and tucked it into his belt. The front door was ajar and he stepped inside, Glock in hand. He pushed the door back into its almost closed position, ensuring it did not latch. Even though he was now living in a small apartment in the laboratory complex, this was his home, and he was familiar with the layout of the rooms. The building was two-storied, with bedrooms upstairs, and kitchen, dining and living rooms downstairs. In addition, there was a study downstairs towards the rear of the house.
No lights showed and after a moment of consideration, Mark decided first to explore upstairs. The main bedroom was on the right. While he was aware he was intruding into personal areas, he was convinced something evil was in the house, which was justification enough for his actions. He stepped soundlessly up carpeted stairs. He had no desire to be detected by the deathly presence which was clamoring silently for his attention. He moved with extreme care.
As he eased into the main bedroom he tugged a small LED torch from a side pocket of his backpack and switched it on. Mark was careful to select the red light to preserve his night vision. He quickly scanned the room and froze for four or five seconds. Fear mounted and he could feel his heartbeat racing. There was a body in the middle of the large double bed. It was Dr. Anna, and she had been shot. Just once, in the center of her forehead. There were no signs of a struggle. It seemed she had been asleep when her killer acted. He must have fired his single shot from the position where Mark was standing.
He moved around the foot of the bed, exploring further. He was at the edge of hyperventilating. His unvoiced fears were realized as he saw Dr. Otto’s body, crumpled on the floor beside the bed. He too had been shot, once in the center of his forehead. Mark did not need to check either body for life signs. He switched off his torch and returned it to his backpack. Shaking with grief, restraining nausea, he stood at the top of the stairs, considering his next move. His anger built. The two doctors were the closest he would ever come to having real parents. He brushed away tears. He could not afford to mourn until he had revenged the deaths of his friends, his family.
“No, not that—tell me about the laboratory.”
For a moment he wondered what the voice really wanted.
“Tell me.”
The order had to be obeyed.
He cursed as he made his way through the building. Offices had been trashed. Alarmed, he rushed to the incubator room. The door was open and he stopped, momentarily reluctant to see inside the room. He edged forward. Fetal containers had been smashed, destroyed with deliberation, their contents released to the open air. Four lifeless bodies glared at him with unseeing eyes, blaming him for his failure to protect them. He dropped to his knees, careless of the fetal fluids which had spilled from the broken containers.
“I’ll find whoever ordered this,” he promised, wiping his eyes. “When I do, I will destroy them. I promise.”
“No, stop. This is all nonsense.” The voice was querulous.
He twisted and turned. His neck burned. His head ached. The back of his hand was on fire. His hands were strapped to a metal frame. He tried to move his legs and discovered they, too, were strapped down. He tried to sit up. A strap across his upper body held him down. He could lift his head, only an inch or so. He worked up the energy to try to open his eyes. His eyelids were glued together; he struggled and at last he managed to open both eyes. They were full of grit, aggravated, painful.
There was nothing to see—the room was pitch black; there was no light, anywhere. He could hear faint, distant noises, so presumably it was daytime. He struggled to recall—something. Presumably he’d fallen unconscious after the injection had taken hold. He’d probably recovered faster than expected, because of his genetic enhancements—possibly his captors would not be aware of those. It might be early—very early—morning.
His nose itched. He couldn’t scratch it. His knee itched. He couldn’t reach that, either. His neck, where his captor had applied the injection, burned. He could move his head. That didn’t help. He blinked. His eyes felt less gritty. He realized he was wired, he could feel pads on his body—perhaps he was being monitored.
At last he remembered—this had happened before. He’d had these exact same experiences the previous morning. At least, he assumed a day had passed. Perhaps it had not been an entire day, perhaps it had been only an hour or two. He had no way of knowing.
Something warned him, a subtle cue, unidentifiable, and he tensed and recalled that he needed to relax—he didn’t want to bite his tongue again. His body spasmed as the current flowed. He panted; he could feel his heart racing, the muscles in his legs cramping. The current flowed again. He repressed a scream.
The current eased. He remembered an idea, a thought, that he should be able to control the savage voltage-induced muscle spasms. It needed something else, he couldn’t quite recall—
The back of his hand stung—that was it, the hypodermic was attached to some form of chemical release system. He was being dosed with narcotics, hallucinogens, pain accelerators—nothing that was good for him.
His lips were dry, his throat parched. He couldn’t recall drinking any water, nor could he remember eating. He knew he stank. He estimated he had not been released from his restraints for at least two days and his bodily wastes were not being removed. He had no way to clean himself. This was, he assumed, part of the torture program, establishing a lack of dignity, showing that he was not worthy of being treated humanely. He smiled in the dark. They did not know—the electric shock charged through his body. He’d missed the cue.
His body now understood it needed to react. His mind pushed and pulled at various possibilities. He decided first to block the flow of injections; it would take a small sacrifice of nanites. He focused on the pain in the back of his hand, delving deeply into his mind. He relaxed. He hoped the needle was blocked. Next, he recalled his idea and commenced to build a nanite-based insulation layer under each conductive contact point—starting with the m
ost painful contact. He concentrated, visualizing the effect he sought. If nothing else, and if it worked, his actions would cause someone to explore, to determine why their processes had halted. If only he could release some of his restraints. He panted, his heart racing—the cue—but no electric shock. It had worked.
If he could free a hand, his arm. He tried to move, twisting his hand, his wrist, his arm, testing the restraint. Was it—? Yes, he felt movement. There was a slight give in the restraint. He repeated his moves, stressing his body. He could feel the straps cutting into his flesh; he could feel blood on his arm. Suddenly—he could feel his arm move. He relaxed and tried to flex his hand. It felt freer, not yet free, closer, but still restrained.
Chapter 12
Dr. Kelsi Pierce found her way to the single-patient ward where, she’d been informed, the girl was recovering. It was the first opportunity she’d had, since starting her shift early that morning, to take a break. She checked with the duty nurse who directed her further down the hallway.
“She’s a popular patient,” the nurse commented with a smile.
“She is? I didn’t think anyone knew her?”
“Your trainee lab tech—Ladder—is with her.”
“So that’s where he disappeared to.”
“There’s a police officer on duty outside her door. I understand the FBI’s also sending someone,” added the nurse.
“That’s a lot of law enforcement interest—I wonder what her story is?”
The nurse shrugged. Kelsi walked to the indicated room and smiled a greeting to the police officer seated outside the door; she recognized him, although she couldn’t recall his name.
He nodded back and said, “Hi, Doc. Welcome to the party.”
She cautiously opened the door and peered in. The girl was sitting up, a wide-awake expression on her face. Someone had made a half-hearted attempt to tidy her hair and her face was clean. There was a bandage across the top half of her head. Ladder was sitting beside her on the edge of the bed. The girl was holding his hand. Neither had noticed her entrance. The room contained two beds, one of which was empty. There were two small sets of drawers beside each bed and four visitor’s chairs, pseudo-modern, in yellow plastic and chrome—probably even more uncomfortable than they appeared, thought Kelsi.
“Oh, no,” said the girl to Ladder. “What color were they?”
“Black, of course.”
She giggled and after a moment so did Ladder.
“But I do like your real name—Oxley—it sounds so manly.”
“Oh, pul-eze.”
They both realized Kelsi was in the room. Ladder blushed and the girl giggled again. Ladder slid off the side of the bed and straightened the bedclothes where he had been sitting.
“Doc. Good morning.”
“Can I call you Doc, too?”
The girl’s eyes were surprisingly vivid, Kelsi thought, a blue that seemed to have strange depths. “Good morning, both of you. Yes, you can call me Doc. What’s your name?”
“Alex—it’s short for Alexandra. Thank you for rescuing me.”
“We did our best, didn’t we, Ladder?”
“Yes, Doc.”
“How’s your head?”
“The pain’s eased. I think I was lucky.”
“I agree.” Kelsi quickly checked the dressing and when she was satisfied, she sat on a visitor’s chair. “What do you remember—can you tell me who your parents are?”
“I already asked, Doc. She can’t.”
“Everyone’s been asking me questions,” Alex said. “I really, really can’t answer them.”
Kelsi had been told earlier by the admissions clerk that details on the young patient were scant. “I understand. Perhaps when you’ve recovered some more.”
A doubtful expression flitted across Alex’s face. “Yes, I suppose.”
There was a knock on the door and it opened slowly. A woman entered. She had, Kelsi thought, thoroughly researched power dressing. The newcomer was wearing a masculine jacket and pants with a white blouse and her blond hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her black shoes had low heels and seemed practical. It made Kelsi’s usual ripped-knee jeans, working shoes, and man’s shirt approach to style very passé. At least today she was wearing the regular Redmont police uniform.
The newcomer looked around the room obviously assessing its contents, including the patient and her two visitors. “Good morning, everyone. My name is Gail Prentice.”
Kelsi thought there was a thread of recognition in the eye contact between Alex and the newcomer.
“You—you’re—?”
“Yes, I’m an FBI agent.” She held out her badge. Kelsi thought the question Alex had intended was not the one the agent answered. The girl seemed apprehensive. Ladder looked from one to the other.
“Is that a real FBI badge?” he asked, standing up. He took a step towards the newcomer and reached out his hand.
Kelsi was surprised at the degree of confidence in his demeanor.
“Oh, yes, it’s real,” the FBI agent replied. She held out her ID and badge for Ladder’s closer examination.
“I agree, Ladder,” Alex said. “She’s FBI, I’m sure.”
Ladder raised his eyebrows. “You are? She is?”
“Oh, yes. I—I know she’s telling the truth.”
He looked more closely at the photograph and accompanying details. He made eye contact with the agent. “Thank you, Agent Prentice.”
Kelsi was impressed—this was a side of Ladder she had not previously observed.
The FBI agent returned her wallet to her shoulder bag. “Good—Ladder, isn’t it? And you’re Alex, according to our records?” She turned to Kelsi. “Dr. Pierce?”
“All right, what’s going on?” Kelsi asked. The tension in the room had somehow escalated.
Agent Prentice replied, “There’s no problem. Rest assured, Alex is important to us. I’m here to provide protection until some other people arrive.”
“Who’s coming?” Alex was anxious.
“Let me see.” She consulted her cell phone, reading off a text message. “General Schmidt, and some other people—Anna, Gabrielle, and Niland.”
A huge smile creased Alex’s face and she jumped on the bed with excitement. “Oh, good, that’s so good. When will they get here?”
“Some time this afternoon. I believe they’re traveling by helicopter.”
“Okay, now I’m really confused,” said Kelsi. “Can you clarify what’s happening? Who are these people? Are they Alex’s family?” She looked at the FBI agent and back to Alex.
“Yes, they’re family. Well, not General Schmidt, of course,” said Alex. Suddenly worried, she looked up at Agent Prentice. “What about Mark—you didn’t mention his name?”
“We—that’s a problem—Mark is missing. There may be a connection with yesterday’s events. We don’t know for sure. That’s why Schmidt and some other FBI agents, more senior than me, are all heading here to Redmont. I don’t know enough to help you with questions, though; my task is to make sure you’re protected. We’ll have two more agents outside your door and a Redmont police officer to keep an eye on you. You’re an important person—Mark would agree.”
“But Mark—”
“General Schmidt will find him.”
Agent Prentice seemed, Kelsi thought, to have every confidence in this General Schmidt. She was surprised at the number of law enforcement personnel. Three FBI agents and a police officer seemed overly protective for a girl who looked to be no more than twelve years of age.
“Ladder, we need to get back to work. There’s still more for us to do at the crime scene.”
“Uh—Dr. Pierce?” The speaker was the FBI agent.
“Yes?”
“I’m supposed to tell you—the FBI have jurisdiction; our team’s out at the Midway property, now. They’ve taken control.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. It did seem more than an average shooting. Alex, here’s my card. Cont
act me if I can help with anything. Or Ladder. Let us know.” She signaled her lab assistant. “It’s time to go; we need to wrap up our report.”
“I’ll visit you again, Alex.” Ladder waved.
“Thank you, Doc and Oxley.” She giggled. “I mean Ladder.”
###
Anna arrived with Gabrielle and Niland some thirty minutes after the departure of Dr. Pierce and her assistant. An FBI agent was seated with the local police officer, a second agent was at the reception desk, and Agent Prentice was inside the small hospital room, reading material on an iPad. Alex had dropped off to sleep. The external guards waved them through, into the room.
Anna spoke quietly to Agent Prentice, “We’ve been cleared for a private conversation with Alex. Do you mind waiting outside?”
“Sure. I received an email. Let me know when you’re finished.”
Anna nodded and, after the agent left the room, said to Gabrielle, “You can wake Alex now, if you like.”
Gabrielle gently shook Alex’s shoulder. Niland stood at her other shoulder. They spoke in complete unison. “Stop dreaming. It’s us; wake up.”
Alex opened her eyes and looked from Gabrielle to Niland and back to Gabrielle. She burst into tears. Gabrielle offered her handkerchief. Niland looked at his and returned it to his pocket. Alex, after wiping her face, reached out a hand for each of the two children, and between sobs, said, “I thought I’d never see you again.” She looked up to Anna, “Oh, Anna, thank you for coming.”
Anna smiled, and with her clean handkerchief, wiped Alex’s face again, drying the tears. “There, now you’re nearly presentable. Next, a trim of that hair, don’t you think? We can arrange that for tomorrow, if you like.”
“Tell us,” urged Niland, “What happened?”
“Who shot you?”
“How did you get there?”
Anna realized the questions would continue at a rapid fire pace and interceded. “Stop, both of you. Alex has had a traumatic experience, is recovering, and doesn’t need to be hassled by you two.”
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