by Slaton Smith
The room was silent. All eyes were on Dr. McFarland.
McFarland walked over to the terminal and ran a diagnostic report. It looked like a success. Sean’s vitals were all strong. He gave the group a thumbs-up. However, the true test of success would be in twelve hours when they brought him out of the coma.
Sean was wheeled to a recovery room where a second team was waiting. This group would administer the serum to speed up Sean’s reaction times by altering the chemical reaction between cells thus reducing synaptic delay. McFarland was certain Sean’s reaction time would be second to none once the serum took effect. To be effective, the serum would be injected into Sean’s IV three times over the next twelve-hour period while he remained in a coma. The impact of the serum would manifest itself over the next several days.
The final procedure was the injection of the tracker into Sean’s buttocks. As soon as the implant was inserted, it went active and Sandy saw Sean’s image pop up on her phone. The same image went active on a screen in Robert Waters’ situation room.
At the twelve-hour mark, Dr. McFarland came into the recovery room to check his work. McFarland ordered another CAT scan. He examined Sean’s brain from every angle. Everything appeared normal. Of course, they would know more in the next few hours.
“Please take him back to room three and ask Dr. Baum to see me,” McFarland requested.
“Yes, doctor?” Baum said, entering the room.
“Dr. Baum, are you clear on the explanation on why he is here?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Good, we need to make sure there is no doubt in his mind that the only thing that transpired here was treatment for dehydration and a bump on the head.”
Dr. Baum nodded and headed down the hall to Sean’s room. He was stirring. She walked over to his bedside.
“Mr. Garrison. Mr. Garrison.”
“Wha. Whe. Where am I?” Sean started to sit up and noticed the IV.
“Back in my office. You collapsed on Saturday night. The hotel called our office and we had the EMTs bring you here.”
“What?” he asked, still foggy.
“You fell and hit your head on the way to the elevator in the hotel,” Dr. Baum explained.
“I did?”
“Yes, a guest found you.”
“You have a concussion. Plus, you are very dehydrated. Ergo, the IV. Did you drink any water after the physical?”
“Not really. I drank a couple beers . . . . Please stop saying ‘ergo’.” Sean felt his head. He was a little foggy.
“Well there you go. The IV should have taken care of the hydration issue,” Dr. Baum ignored his other comment, turned to a nurse and motioned for her to remove the IV.
“What time is it?” Sean asked, hesitantly. He was completely lost.
“It is Sunday afternoon.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“No. I am not. Do you feel like standing up?”
“Sure, but my head is killing me.” Sean sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He still felt weak. He stood up, a little dizzy, but OK.
“You feel like going back to the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“I am going to give you a prescription for that headache. I will have it filled and dropped by the hotel. I am also going to call the hotel and ask them to stock your room with water. Any particular kind?” Dr. Baum said, as she filled out a prescription.
“Anything is fine, doctor. Thank you.”
“I will give you a few minutes to get dressed. We took the opportunity to have your clothes cleaned,” Dr. Baum said, pointing to the clothes, folded neatly on the chair.
“Thank you,” Sean said, walking slowly towards the clothes. He felt that was odd, but didn’t say anything.
“Oh, I will also let Mr. Mathis know that you will not be making it on Monday. I am sure he will understand,” Baum said, closing the door.
Sean slowly got dressed. “So, this is what a concussion feels like,” he said to himself. Several minutes later, Dr. Baum came back into the room. A nurse with a wheelchair followed right behind her.
“Please have a seat Mr. Garrison. This is Ms. Rodgers. She is one of our best nurses and will accompany you to the hotel. We have a van downstairs, manned by two of our EMTs.”
Sean sat in the chair and Ms. Rodgers wheeled him out of the room. She was cute, but he could not muster the words to say something clever. She sorta looked like that girl from 'Til Tuesday. The short blonde hair . . . He could not remember her name . . . . They got on the elevator and took the short ride down to the basement. The door opened and the two EMTs helped Sean onto the van. Ms. Rodgers sat beside him, put her hand on his leg. He still was so out of it that he barely noticed. The EMTs parked in the back of the hotel again. Just like the day before, the hotel’s security system went down. Ms. Rodgers helped him into the wheel chair and pushed him through the loading area to the service elevator and up to his floor.
“Do you have my key?” Sean asked.
“Of course.” she said, holding up the key. She opened the door and pushed him inside. The room had been cleaned and the tray from last night was gone. In its place were a dozen slender one-liter bottles of water. Someone had arranged them like bowling pins. Sean smiled.
“Someone loves bowling,” he said, pointing at the water.
“Looks that way,” she replied, looking around the room to make sure he had everything.
Sean got out of the chair slowly. The nurse noticed he was still wobbly
“Do you need help getting into bed?” she asked, as she pulled down the sheets on the bed.
Sean smiled. He was feeling better.
Sandy watched and listened from her monitors in the next room. She was eating an apple but stopped chewing and leaned towards the screen to see what he would say.
“That might take a while. I thought you said you had to get right back?” Sean said with a sly smile.
“Well, I see you are feeling better,” she said, walking past and completely ignoring him.
“A little.”
Sandy chuckled and kept watching.
“I am leaving Dr. Baum’s number here on the desk. Call her if you need us. The prescription will be delivered shortly.”
‘Ok.”
“I hope you feel better,” she said and pushed the wheelchair out of the room.
“Thank you.”
The door closed behind her. Sean walked into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He had a nasty taste in his mouth. He grabbed a bottle of water and drank it until it was gone. He tossed the bottle in the trash and opened another bottle. He finished half of it. Approximately twenty people were watching his every move via monitors.
“Wow! I must have been dehydrated,” he said aloud. He turned on the TV and was flipping through the channels when there was a heavy knock at the door. He opened the door to find a man wearing a blue jacket and navy pants with some sort of delivery company patch on the jacket.
“Sean Garrison?”
“Yes.”
“Package.” He handed Sean a bag, which held the prescription. Sean signed the form and went back into the room. He opened the bag. Inside was a smaller bag with instructions stapled to it. He opened the smaller bag and took out the pill bottle. He did not recognize the drug. The label said: “for mild pain and headaches.” He took one of the pills and tossed the bag with the bottle onto the desk. Still a bit worn out from the recent ordeal, he pulled off his shirt, tossed it towards the chair but missed. It landed on the floor. He took off shoes and jeans and just left them on the floor. He turned out the lights and climbed into bed.
The first thirty-six hours would be critical and he was monitored very closely.
Over the next thirteen days, fifteen men would go though the same procedure. McFarland and Waters juggled hotels throughout the downtown Boston area to ensure that none of the men ran into one another.
McFarland would lose three of the candidates before they even left the lab.
XIII
What a great day for a run!
Boston – Monday – May 16, 2011
Sean slept nearly eighteen hours. It was 2 P.M. on Monday when he awoke. Sandy was concerned that he was dead or close to it. She discovered it was very boring watching a guy sleep for eighteen hours.
Sean felt much better. The foggy feeling in his head was gone. He took the bottle of water off the nightstand, walked over to the window and finished drinking it. It was a sunny day in Boston.
“I think I will go for a run,” he said to himself. He thought it was a little weird since he normally hated running. He took out his lacrosse shorts, running shoes and a t-shirt, got dressed and was about to leave when his cell rang.
“This is Sean.”
“Sean! Walter Mathis. Are you doing OK? I received a note about an hour ago when I got back in town,” Hass said, with genuine concern in his voice. He liked Sean.
Sean walked him through the last thirty-six hours or at least what he could remember.
“That sounds awful. I tell you what. Let’s start around 1 P.M. on Tuesday. Will that work?”
“No problem,” Sean replied.
“Oh, I have something for you. We have a great relationship with a tailor here in town. I have set you up for a fitting. I feel bad for everything that happened and I know you will need a couple of suits once you start travelling. I hope you don’t mind,” Hass offered.
They needed Sean’s measurements. As part of his assignments, the team would need to supply him with the right attire or equipment. It was the one element they missed with Sean. All of the other men were measured while they were in recovery.
“No. Not at all. Thank you! Thank you very much.”
“Great. The tailor will meet you downstairs on Tuesday at noon. I will email you the meeting room location. It will be the same room that we will use for training and the orientation. Take it easy today.
“I will,” Sean said and hung up. Of course, he was going to do the opposite.
In the next room, Sandy was tying her shoelaces. She would be going for a run too. She had on black capri length tights and a white tank. She fastened a small pack to her waist and placed her Walther PPQ and phone inside. She preferred a Glock 19, but the PPQ was a better fit. Lastly, she fitted a communication device inside her left ear, sat back down and watched the monitor.
Sean pulled his hotel door closed, trotted down the hall and hit the down button on the elevator. Without thinking about it, he dropped down and started doing push-ups. The door opened and he hopped up and got inside. He pressed the button for the lobby. The doors closed and he hit the ground again and started cranking out push-ups. His arms were shaking.
Sandy left her room as soon as the elevator doors closed. She alerted her back up team that Sean was on his way.
“Damn! I am out of shape,” he said to himself. The doors opened and he walked across the lobby and out the revolving door.
“Hey Fred!” Sean yelled to the bellman. Fred tipped his cap in Sean’s direction.
Sean headed north on Arlington towards Boston Common. He hit a nice stride and took off. Sandy ran out of the hotel and started running as well. She stayed a hundred feet or so behind him. He was really running hard and she had to increase her pace to keep up.
Sean took Arlington all the way up to Boylston Street and took a left. He kept running until he hit Hereford Street. He stopped at the corner, sweat pouring off his head. He jogged in place waiting for the light. Sandy saw what he was doing and sprinted across Boylston seventy-five feet from the corner. The light changed and he ran across the street and up Hereford. He kept going until he hit Beacon Street.
He suddenly stopped. Vomit flew out of his mouth, hands on his knees, he was spitting out what was left in his stomach. Sandy stopped, watched and then reported in.
“He’s throwing up,” she announced.
“Sandy, this is Dr. McFarland. What’s happening?”
“He’s running.”
“Hard?”
“Yes. I’d say a sub-six minute pace.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Stay with him. He should be fine. If he starts acting erratic, you know what to do.”
“Copy.” Sandy said, ending the conversation. Sean started running again and turned right on Beacon Street. Sandy kept pace with him.
“Bill! Where are you?”
“Trying to make it up Boylston.” Her back up was hopelessly behind them. The traffic made it impossible to keep up with Sean in the city.
Sean kept up a strong pace all the way past Boston Common. He followed Beacon around until it intersected with Washington Street where he turned right. He ran down Washington to Stuart Street and then followed it until it hit Arlington and the hotel.
Then unexpectedly, he did the whole route again.
He stopped when he came to the edge of the hotel property the second time. His shirt was soaked. He leaned against the wall of the hotel and slid down, until he was sitting. He was breathing hard. Fred rushed over to him.
“Mr. Garrison! Are you OK?” Fred leaned over and offered a hand to Sean and hauled him to his feet.
Sandy rounded the corner and lingered there. She put her hand to her neck and looked at her watch, pretending to check her pulse.
“Thanks Fred. I think I over did it,” Sean said, walking slowly to the revolving doors. Fred had his hand on Sean’s back.
“You need to take it easy,” Fred said, as Sean entered the hotel.
Sandy noted how quickly people gravitated to Sean. It was interesting. She walked past the bellman towards the hotel. Fred tipped his cap when she went by.
“Damn, I hate running.” Fred said when he saw Sandy walk by in her workout attire.
Sandy watched Sean get on the elevator and then followed him up in the next elevator. Sean headed right for his room. Entering, he snatched a bottle of water from the desk, took off the cap and chugged it. He then stripped off the t-shirt and walked into the bathroom to start the water. He went back to the bedroom and sat on the bed. He pulled off his shoes. As he feared, he had some nasty blisters starting.
Sandy watched him from her room. She was looking at her feet as well. Her feet were a little better – no blisters, but she knew she was going to be sore.
Sean hobbled to the shower. The room was filled with steam. The water felt good. He stayed in there for a while, shampooed his hair and noticed his head was sore.
“Must have been the fall,” he said to himself.
Sean turned off the water and got out, wrapping a towel around his waist. He walked over to the sink and turned on the hot water. He scooped up some of the water and splashed it on the mirror. A spot on the mirror just big enough for him to see himself and shave appeared. He finished shaving and walked back into the bedroom. He tossed the towel onto the floor, giving the twenty plus people watching a nice show.
Sean went to his bag and pulled out a pair of boxers and put them on. Then, without warning he dropped to the ground and started doing push-ups. He did them until failure, collapsed on the floor and did not get up for a moment.
From his lab, McFarland was observing Sean’s behavior. Number Two has a case of OCD, he noted in his file. “It could be worse,” he said, to himself. Some of his subjects had clawed themselves to death after the procedure. Others slipped into a spiral of depression from which they never recovered. As McFarland thought about it, Number Two’s disorder might make him more effective.
Finally, Sean rose to his feet put on a t-shirt followed by a blue button down and a pair of khaki pants. He decided to wear his white “no-show” socks with his brown shoes. Not the best fashion choice, but his feet didn’t look good.
He picked up the phone and called hotel guest services.
“Good evening, Mr. Garrison.”
“Good evening. What time does the
restaurant open?”