RAGE (Descendants Saga (Crisis Sequence One))

by James Somers

  Instead of shutting down the engine, the driver taps a sequence on a mounted tablet computer. I can not make out the code. A space in the wall opens before the car. When we’re clear, the driver takes us through. To my surprise, another parking facility lies on the other side. I can see only one level here. It is larger and more spread out. Several dozen vehicles are parked already in its available spaces.

  The driver finds one empty and then parks. The engine shuts down, and Agent Devine indicates I should exit the car on my side. The door is unlocked now. Standing next to the Mercedes, I notice the door in the concrete wall closing again. I cannot discern where exactly it was.

  “This way, Jonathan,” Agent Devine says.

  The driver remains with the car. Another agent, who remained nameless sitting in the front passenger seat, walks with us to an elevator. A camera mount watches as we approach.

  Agent Devine scans his right hand over a plate embedded in the wall. The elevator opens. We three step inside. The walls of the elevator are mirrored on all sides including the door when it closes.

  There are no function keys inside I can see. Nevertheless, the elevator begins its descent without any command on our part. There is no level indicator to tell me how many floor levels we descend, but it seems to go quickly for about ten seconds.

  “How did you do that?” I ask Agent Devine.

  “What’s that, Jonathan?”

  “Make the elevator open by waving your hand over that metal plate,” I said.

  He grins at me. “Do you know anything about Biochip technology?”

  “Not really,” I reply. “Can you explain it to me?”

  His grin straightens. “Not really.”

  When the doors open, we walk into a vestibule with gray concrete walls and a Plexiglas window, opposite the elevator. It’s probably bullet proof. This reminds me of a bank window, since a woman is sitting behind it smiling as we approach. Two plain metal doors flank the window to either side on the right and left hand walls.

  The woman is middle-aged with dark hair and glasses. She does not appear to be wearing any makeup.

  “Yes?” she asks Agent Devine.

  “A new recruit for Dr. Albert’s program,” Agent Devine answers.

  She gives me a cursory look. I’m wearing blue jeans and a sweat shirt along with a dark blue jacket I wore to school yesterday. My book bag was put into the trunk of the black Mercedes and not given back to me. It only has books and assignments in it anyway. I don’t expect to need any of those things now.

  It suddenly occurs to me I might be missed at school. Someone will surely notify the school about the fight, maybe even Agent Devine here. They can excuse me that way for about six weeks for a broken arm, although that might be stretching it. I’ve seen plenty of kids with casts on their arms and legs attend school.

  What will happen after, when there is no excuse for my absence? Will the authorities make inquiries? I glance at Agent Devine, remembering whom I’m dealing with here. The Secret Intelligence Service.

  They can say anything they want about my sudden disappearance. I’ve gone abroad to live with family in America, or I’ve simply run away. A depressed teen, bullied at school and rebellious because of my life in the foster system. Anything at all.

  People will give up worrying about me quickly. After all, there is no one who really cares. Maybe, Harold and Jeanette care enough to push the issue—maybe—but they can be silenced pretty easily, if need be. They might even believe the runaway story, and the government will be terribly forthcoming with an investigation that will ultimately lead nowhere.

  My attention is drawn back to the woman as she speaks again. “Possibility of contagion?” she asks.

  Agent Devine snorts a short laugh. “Minimal.”

  “To the left, gentlemen,” she says. “We’ll still do a full screen and panel on him. No one comes into the facility without a screening.”

  Agent Devine nods. “We’re just dropping him off with you,” he says. “I forwarded the hospital records to Dr. Albert already.”

  The woman smiles. “Jonathan Parks? We have them.”

  The metal door to our left opens. There is no one on the other side I can see. I start toward the door then pause, when Agent Devine doesn’t move. He and the other agent remain with their hands clasped in front of them.

  He gives me a little nod. “It was good to meet you, Jonathan. Dr. Albert will take good care of you while you’re here.”

  I wonder how long that will be. Indefinitely, perhaps? They won’t tell me, even if I ask. I don’t nod. I don’t say goodbye. I just walk through the door, and it closes behind me.

  Inside the square room beyond the door, a small wooden bench is bolted to the floor in front of three stubby lockers. Several bright orange jumpsuits hang on plastic hangers on a rack next to a shower stall. A man’s voice comes over an intercom speaker in the ceiling.

  “Jonathan, please place your belongings into one of the lockers. You’ll have to shower in the stall with the soap provided. We have to make sure you’re free of contaminants before you come through into the facility.”

  My eyes search the room for the camera I’m sure is watching my every move. I can’t see it, but that means nothing. Of course, they’re watching.

  “You’ll find a towel on the bar in the shower stall,” the voice says. “Dress in one of the jumpsuits when you’re done and we’ll have you come through the other door.”

  There is one other door on the opposite side of the room. There are no door handles. I’m under their control. From now on, my life will be dictated to me. I can’t even begin to think of escaping.

  Resigned to my fate, I disrobe and place my clothes in the locker. I’m growing angrier by the minute. This can’t be happening to me. I toss my underwear into the locker after my jeans and shirt and shoes. If these perverts want a show, then so be it. I refuse to be humiliated or intimidated.

  I walk across the cold tiled floor and throw the shower control all the way on. The water takes a moment before growing hot. I reach around the stream of water and lower the temperature just a bit. When I stand under the hot water, I do my best to let my troubles wash away.

  There is a bar of soap on the shelf. I lather up with it and use the scrubby provided. I’m assuming it’s new since the tag is still on it. My skin tingles once the soap is on. I wonder what kind of chemical this stuff is made from. Something antibacterial I guess.

  I wash the soap off and then stand under the running water. I’m in no hurry now. In fact, I stand there rinsing off until the water finally begins to grow cold. Forcing them to wait is my insignificant way of letting them know I’m not broken. A foolish gesture, but it’s all I’ve got at this point.

  Turning the shower off, I dry with the towel and then find a jumpsuit on the rack. A plastic package hanging with each jumpsuit contains a pair of Hanes underwear, a white undershirt, and a pair of elastic slippers with a thin sole. I toss the towel in the empty hamper and then put on the clothing.

  When I finish dressing, I realize I look like a prison inmate. There’s no number stenciled on my uniform, but the difference is negligible. I’m a prisoner just the same.

  The door opens on the other side of the room—my cue to proceed. I leave the locker room behind, walking into the next chamber. This room appears to be some sort of doctor’s office. It has that look—a blood pressure cuff and other basic stuff on a counter with a little desk.

  A boxy examination table with a thick vinyl pad dominates the right side of the room. I ignore it and take up station on the squat rolling stool sitting under the desktop. Scanning the counter, I find nothing of consequence, nothing that could be used as a weapon. The only thing missing from this dull room is a stack of ten year old magazines.

  I sit on the stool, wheeling back and forth aimlessly, waiting for someone to come in. More than once, I address the faceless voice but receive no reply. It occurs to me my attempt at stalling in the shower is now coming back to b
ite me. I imagine them sitting in their control room, watching me here bored out of my mind, making sure I understand who calls the shots.

  At long last, the opposite door opens and a man enters. He is wearing a mask, but I can tell he has a graying beard. He also wears wire rimmed glasses. His hair is gray, but completely bald on top. The fluorescent lighting shines off of his polished scalp.

  “Hello, Jonathan,” the mans says. “My name is Dr. Albert. I believe Agent Devine may have mentioned to you I’m the one leading this program?”

  I settle into my most earnest scowl and say nothing in reply. These people don’t deserve my cooperation. I’ve been abducted. I have no reason to be friendly about it. My sullen compliance is all they’ll have, as far as I’m concerned.

  Dr. Albert smiles, regardless. “I’m sure this is quite traumatic for you, being such a young man and torn away from your life like this. However, we are very excited to have you with us. I hope you will quickly come to realize what an opportunity you have to explore your particular gifts with us. There are several others here, also, with peculiar talents, and we’ve had the privilege to help them.”

  “And then you let them go?” I ask, interrupting.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You helped them and then let them go?” I ask again, adding a bit more sarcasm this time around. “I mean, if this is such a privilege, and you mean us no harm, then we’re going to be released aren’t we?”

  Dr. Albert pauses. “Eventually, I’m sure,” he says finally. “But you must also understand, Jonathan, our society is not ready for people with your talents. You might face persecution. Part of what we hope to accomplish here is teaching you to cope with your gifts—how and when to use them, as well as dealing with the public. We want to help.”

  I nod as though I don’t believe a word of it, looking around the room. “I’ve not had any problem before today,” I reply. “Before I was kidnapped.”

  Dr. Albert’s expression turns dark now. “Jonathan, I’m not going to mince words. This program operates under the auspice of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service. It is in your best interest to cooperate fully. This can become a comfortable and friendly working relationship, or something quite a bit more unpleasant. That all depends upon you. In a way, we are all prisoners to the best interests of society. So, let’s make the most of what we have, shall we?”

  Dr. Albert’s candor shocks me a little, but he’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. Actually, I appreciate the honesty, but I’m not going to tell him that. Still, I’d rather not have them blowing smoke at me.

  “One of our nurses will be in soon to draw blood and take a sample,” Dr. Albert says. “If you want to do this on your own, you may go into the bathroom there,” he indicates the little door behind me, “and take one of the plastic containers. Fill it up to the line. You will find disposable cups also, if you need to get a drink of water from the sink.”

  “How about some food?” I ask. “They didn’t feed me at the hospital. I’m starving.”

  “We’ll see about that after the nurse is through.”

  “Pizza would be good, if you have it,” I reply. If I’m going to be held against my will, I might as well make the most of it.

  He grins a little. “Since I’m sure we’ll have your full cooperation from now on, I’ll see what I can do. All right?”

  I nod, less antagonistic now. I do understand my situation. Fighting them isn’t going to hurt anyone but me, at this point. If I’m going to be stuck here either way then it makes sense to play nice for the time being—at least until they give me a reason not to.

  Dr. Albert leaves the room by the same door he came through. It closes behind him. There’s no need to lock these doors because there are no handles to open them with.

  I glance at the bathroom door and decide to investigate it. I haven’t had anything to drink in a while, but I would rather give the urine specimen a try before the nurse arrives. Who knows if they’ll be looking over my shoulder, at that point.

  There’s only a pull on the door, not an actual lock. When I enter, I quickly realize I can’t close the door. It just pulls up snug to the frame and sits there. If anyone wants to barge in, they’ll have no problem.

  I feel like I might be able to work up a specimen, so I break out a cup from its plastic wrap and do my best. I manage to give them a little more than the indented line on the cup before I’m through. Careful with the lid, I close it and carry it with me to the counter outside.

  Now, I’m waiting again in my orange jumpsuit.

  Before too long, a nurse does appear in the room. The door opens, and in comes someone who reminds me of the stereotypical female Russian athlete—all bulging arms and thick of neck, with more hair on her upper lip than I have. She strides up to me, glancing over at the urine specimen. A zip-lock baggie, bearing a medical waste emblem, appears in hand from her pocket.

  “Bag that please,” she says.

  Her accent is definitely deep and British despite her appearance. I guess I’m just profiling on the Russian thing. I take the bag from her and pop the specimen inside, zipping it up. I offer it back to her, but she produces a tackle box instead that she’s carried in with her.

  “Leave it on the counter,” she says.

  I’m eyeing the tackle box now. “What’s in there?”

  “My name is Uma,” she says.

  I see this indicated on her badge also. “Like Uma Thurman?” I reply, trying to be lighthearted.

  She replies in perfect deadpan. “No.”

  I watch as she sets the tackle box on the counter and opens it. Inside are packaged syringes and needles of various sizes, as well as a number of stoppered glass vials.

  “I’m going to draw your blood for some tests,” she explains. “This is necessary before we can allow you into the main facility. We must be sure you are free from contamination.”

  “Contamination by what?” I ask.

  “Anything at all that might put our experiments or personnel at risk,” is Uma’s reply.

  I notice she is not wearing the mask that is strapped around her neck, even though Dr. Albert had been. I don’t say anything about it though. I don’t want to make this woman angry. She’s about to stick me with at least one needle, and she looks like she could body slam me if provoked.

  “I’ll need your arm,” she says, donning a pair of plastic gloves and pulling up her mask.

  I extend my right arm, and she wraps a plastic tourniquet around my bicep. The needle comes out. I turn my head slightly and feel the stick. Looking back, the tube fills with my blood.

  A moment later, she has the needle out of my arm. She has collected two separate tubes of my blood. She places them back into the tackle box, gathering the urine specimen as she stands.

  “What happens now?” I ask, as the tourniquet is replaced with a band-aid over the needle stick site.

  Almost as if in answer to my question, the door opens behind Uma. She turns and I peer out from behind her bulky torso. Three men in blue Hazmat suits rush into the room.

  “Priority One Emergency!” one of them shouts.

  Uma practically leaps away from me as two of the suited men come toward me with their hands outstretched. The other backs Uma away, creating a barrier between us. She speaks frantically.

  I stand up automatically. “What’s going on?”

  The men talk to one another through headsets. I’m not even sure they can hear what I’m asking them. They grab me in their rush. I react, twisting away and backing up. They come after me aggressively. I hear one of them calling for a sedative.

  The closest grabs my upper arms, attempting to bring me under control. In my mind, I’m not out of control. Theses guys are rushing me unnecessarily. Instinctively, I throw my hands up and out to break his hold. Then I catch the man under his face shield, cupping his chin through the suit material, and shove his head back. His body follows.

  I see the second man coming, as the first twists away
out of control. He rushes me with an angry look. My left foot shoots out, smashing the inside of his right leg. He stumbles and crashes onto the floor as I maneuver away with my hands up, trying to let them know I’m not a threat. It’s probably too late for that sentiment.

  “There’s no need for this,” I say, but no one is listening.

  The three men come at me together this time, crowding me against the wall. I keep my hands up. This is already getting out of hand. I don’t want trouble. They were threatening me.

  “Sedative!” one of them yells, as they get hold of me together.

  “I’m not touching him,” Uma yells back.

  “That’s not necessary!” I say.

  In response, they man handle me to the floor, pressing a knee into my back and my face to the tiles. I’m not sure who does it, but I feel the needle stick through my jumper right in my left flank.

  The effect is not immediate, despite what you see in the movies. The Hazmat guys stay on top of me for what seems like forever. I can hardly breathe for their oppressive combined weight. It’s a good thing I’m strong.

  I begin to relax. My head swims. I open and shut my eyes several times before giving up. The men talk with Uma above me. I hear something about St. Mary’s, as she inquires what the problem is.

  “The other boy, who was brought in with this one, has attacked several people at the hospital,” one of the men says. “Killed a security guard. He was sick for hours and then woke up rabid. This one might be infected also.”

  I barely register this information. I have no ability to contemplate the news or react to it. The sedative overwhelms me and my lights go out.

  Waking to Terror

  Only an idiot lives in a box. The real world won’t fit inside—Jonathan Parks

  13 Days Earlier

  I’m awake, but my eyes are still closed. I’m not sure I really want to open them. I’m more concerned with what these noises are, where they are coming from, and what is making them.