After five sets of seven, Alik replaced the barbell into its supports and said, “I think I wanna try for more. Would you put fifteen more on each side?”
She shrugged and walked to the rack, selecting the weights, slipping them onto the barbell and locking them all into place. Meg briefly worried if this was too much, but didn’t say anything. If anyone could handle this much weight, it was Alik.
At least someone could be a real hero and not Excruciatingly Emotional Girl like stupid me. Meg resumed her assault on her bottom lip.
She watched her brother wipe his hands dry, then wipe the bar before laying back and situating himself on the bench just right. He locked his thick hands on the shiny metal bar and pushed up, testing the feel of the additional weight. His blue eyes flashed in physical and mental concentration. He lowered the bar to his chest. As his arms began to push the massive amount of weight they quivered slightly, but he didn’t stop or call out for help. She was poised and ready to help shoulder the burden if he gave the slightest indication that it was too much, but he never did. He just kept lowering and pressing the weights for a set of ten before moving to replace the bar. Meg helped him slip the bar into its supports not because he looked as if he needed help, but because she couldn’t just stand by watching him struggle anymore.
Alik took several deep breaths, before speaking. “Why did you help me put the bar back?”
She shrugged, still not ready to talk.
“I was fine. The additional thirty pounds felt great. I just stopped so I didn’t overdo it.”
She walked away and grabbed him a bottle of water from the old fridge they found at a garage sale soon after buying this ranch nearly two months ago. The refrigerator was ugly on the outside, but after Evan rigged it, it ran like new. Alik was sitting up on the bench by the time she walked back to him with the ice-cold drink. He took it and popped the lid off before handing it back to Meg. “You need to drink this, Meg. I’ll get another after I see you drink half.” He stared pointedly at the bottle he held out to her.
Meg didn’t feel as if she deserved cool water.
She didn’t feel as if she deserved to speak, or eat or have clean clothes. She was hanging on to her sanity with her splitting fingernails and right about now, Meg was wondering how blissful it would feel to just let go.
Alik was still breathing pretty hard. Sweat was pouring down his neck and chest. The whisk-away T-shirt couldn’t keep up with the fluids he was losing. He was going to get dehydrated. She could feel his thirst. She wanted him to drink the damn water.
He knew what he was doing. He knew Meg wouldn’t let him hurt himself, so he was forcing her to take care of herself before he would take care of his needs.
Huffing angrily, she yanked the bottle from his outstretched hands, splashing some crystal fluid onto the brown dirt between our feet. Putting the plastic to her lips, she tossed her head back, guzzled deeply, making Alik watch her swallow before stopping and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Meg’s stomach cramped painfully at the icy onslaught, but was glad for the ache.
Nodding, Alik went to retrieve his own bottle of water, opened it and sipped thoughtfully.
“So why did you spot me when I didn’t signal the need for help?”
Peeling the label off the bottle in her hands, she only offered a shrug.
“You don’t like to see me struggle, do you?”
Meg said nothing.
“You don’t want anyone you love to struggle, and you’ll do anything you can to help them—to take away their pain, even if it means you take it on for them.”
She set the half-empty bottle down on a fold out table that held clean towels and turned her back to Alik “Meg, you helped spot me because you were worried I was struggling. You only caved and drank the water because I threatened not to drink until you did.”
Meg didn’t know what he expected her to say. “Great, sense. Your powers of perception demonstrate your profound wisdom,” she bit, angry with him for figuring her out so easily.
“Why do you think it’s any different for the people who care about you? When Evan, Cole and I see you struggle, we want to help you,” he said calmly.
“You can’t. We’ve been over this before, Alik. No one can help me. I’m going to just have to learn to live with this,” She motioned to her head.
“The nightmares, how often are you having them?” Alik was studying her face, so she turned away. She knew it was no use. He already scrutinized the dark circles under her eyes, the gaunt hollows of her cheekbones, the shakes she could not control in her formerly steady hands.
Meg felt the anger simmer and shift to desperation. Staring down at her dusty running shoes, she gave in. “It would be easier to count the handful of nights I haven’t had them.”
“You’re not eating enough, or drinking enough fluids. You’re not able to sleep. Even when you’re up, you look like you’re lost in a walking nightmare,” Alik shook his head, worry filling his eyes.
“And you’re running miles by yourself in the middle of the night and working out like you’re training for the Iditarod. The family is talking about staging an intervention, Meg. You look strung out; something’s gotta give,” he said with sincerity barely disguising the murky fear beneath.
“What do you want me to do, Alik?” Meg felt her eyes sting. She was too dehydrated to cry and she was frustrated to know her efforts to hide pain had been futile.
Her family was on to her.
“I want you to talk to us and let us help you. We’ll figure something out. We’re your family, Meg. We’re here to share your burden.”
She slumped, exhausted, in one of the metal fold-out chairs nearby and breathed the earthy smell of the barn. Her fingernails were chewed to bloody half moons. She stared at them for a moment before speaking. “Maybe after I clean up and try to take a nap. I can’t talk right now. I’m too,” she gulped still staring at her raw, shaking fingers, “I’m too messed up right now.”
Meg stood slowly and limped toward the door. Alik didn’t try to stop her, but she could feel his worry wrap around like mist.
The morning sun was already glowing pink and yellow across the ranch; dawn painting the world with wide brushstrokes. The birds fluttered around the yard, squawking their happy spring mating calls to one another. Maze walked solemnly beside Meg, strong body moving fluidly on his native soil.
When she slipped into the house, it was already alive with the sounds of morning breakfast. It felt so surreal to her. She walked like a ghost through the back door, hoping she was as invisible as she felt.
“Meg?” Margo called from the kitchen.
Shoot.
“Yeah, mom. I’m just heading to the shower. Be out in a while.” Meg called over her shoulder and hurried across the living room. She turned right, down the hallway and ran into Farrow.
“Good morning, Meg,” she said smiling.
Meg couldn’t understand anyone who smiled anymore.
She barely resisted the urge to punch her.
“Hey, Farrow,” she muttered before slipping into her room and closing the door behind her before she could say anything else cheerful.
Meg’s bed still looked like she’d lost a wrestling match on it—sheets crumpled and twisted. Ignoring it, she kicked her dusty shoes off into her closet and padded into her bathroom. One of the great things about this house was that each of the six bedrooms has its own attached bath. Everyone had plenty of personal space. Important when it came to five teenaged metahumans and one set of lovely human adults who all lived under the same sprawling roof.
All this house needed to make it completely homey for the family was a laboratory, so Alik, Evan, Cole and Theo went right to work designing and building one. Even Margo and Farrow helped. That kept everyone busy for a while, which was good. It gave Meg time to be by herself, though they kept trying to get her to join in. She couldn’t stand pretending she was okay for very long. It was very exhausting.
Meg leaned agai
nst the sink to pull off her wet socks one at a time. Gross.
She turned the shower on before sliding out of her clothes. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror was startling. Alik wasn’t exaggerating. She did look strung out.
Her womanly curves looked to have disappeared in her neglect. She did have a tight six-pack on her stomach and the wiry muscles throughout the rest of her body looked like that of a marathon runner’s. Her dark, once beautiful hair looked so destroyed she was pretty sure a vulture wouldn’t want to use it for its nest.
Meg resisted the urge to punch the mirror.
Stepping into the hot spray she let the water pound the top layer of grime off her skin before grabbing the bar of soap and a washcloth. Methodically, she scrubbed the soap on the cloth, gathering a lot of the cleansing substance and began scrubbing her face and neck before moving to her arms and chest. She rinsed the dirt off the cloth before repeating the process to finish cleaning her lower half, focusing a little extra time on her legs as they sported an extra layer of caked on dirt from the run on a gravel road and the floor of the barn.
Feeling moderately satisfied her body was clean, Meg grabbed the huge bottle of shampoo and squeezed a ping-pong sized dollop into her palm. She smoothed some across the back of her head first, then gathered the long ends and pulled them up to the top of her head, before rubbing the rest of the shampoo into the wad she held there. She scrubbed, adding shampoo when she felt there wasn’t enough to manage the muck that was her hair. Conditioner was a must with her thick curls, so she repeated the process with a handful of cream.
Letting the conditioner sit, Meg grabbed her razor and shaving cream. Her legs were long and lean with lots of sharp angles around and behind her knees. Sure enough, though she was trying to be careful as she worked around the protruding bones and tendons, in her lost thoughts, she swiped just wrong, and felt the telltale sting. Blood slipped down her leg from the one-inch slice of skin she’d just slashed.
She gasped.
She watched.
The bright-red life fluid mingled with the rushing water and slipped down to the shower floor—the tapered floor with a single drain in the middle.
That’s when her mind crashed.
Meg felt swept away—swept down into the darkness of the small drain holes.
Blackness crawled around her peripheral vision, closing in until she could see nothing. The ringing in her ears was deafening. She felt as if she was going to vomit, violently as her empty stomach clenched around itself. There was nothing she could do to stop it. Like bloody water slipping down the black-holed drain, Meg collapsed.
When she awoke, the water was still pouring on her, though it was tepid now. Tentatively, she sat up. The world spun. Her body wouldn’t stop shaking. She reached up to touch her forehead where it ached sharply and looked at her bloody fingers as though they belonged to someone else. She must have hit her head on the shower’s handle on the way down.
Not trusting her legs to hold her, Meg knelt, reached up and turned off the water. Still shaking, Meg pushed the door to the shower stall open and crawled over the threshold, naked and wet. She didn’t stop. She kept crawling slowly out of her bathroom and made it to the edge of her bed.
Clawing the fitted sheet in her weak efforts, she finally managed to crawl on top of the bed and pulled her rumpled blanket over herself completely. Her wet hair soaked into the unsuspecting pillow and she shivered uncontrollably, so she cocooned herself, head and all, in the blanket and passed out for the second time in an hour.
There was only blackness at first.
Peaceful, delicious blackness.
Meg even remembered thinking maybe she escaped the nightmares this time.
Maybe that’s all it took—a solid whack to the head and passing out equaled restful sleep.
She wasn’t so lucky.
This time her nightmare started in an unfamiliar, sterile white hospital laboratory.
She looked down in her hand and saw the two metal orbs she loved to hold, dancing around each other, making a rhythmic scraping sound as they moved.
Meg was wearing black gloves and noticed red blood streaking the cuff of her perfectly tailored white shirt. Looking more closely, she saw her wrist was oozing from open wounds. Absently, she wondered why she didn’t feel the pain she should have from such injuries.
Across the room was a man wearing a standard white lab coat. Part of her frowned at the fleeting thought that she’d seen this man before. Meg concentrated on the man’s mouth as he spoke, trying desperately to hear what he was saying.
Chapter 21 The Perfect Specimen
“…injuries. The chemical induced coma you’ve ordered can’t last forever, sir. We’ve taken all we need from him. He’s ready.” Dr. Chaunders had grown the smallest of spines over the last two months. He had to.
“What do the others on the team think?” Dr. Williams asked, staring at the soldier through the one-way mirror.
“It’s all in the report, sir. We believe when the subject crushed the two glass vials of Infinite I serum in his hand, an undetermined amount made its way through the cuts into his bloodstream, essentially dosing him. His injuries were so extensive it should have taken him weeks to recover, even with his metahuman rapid healing abilities, but it took less than half the time anticipated.” Chaunders stopped and looked to the director.
“Continue.” Williams stood unmoving except the gloved hand rotating the metal orbs, causing a whispered scraping sound as they moved.
“As you’re aware, sir, the subject regained consciousness on the ninth day. When he awoke, he claimed to have no memory of the events between his Retribution Match last October and now. He woke thinking he was recovering from his battle against his brother, Gavil Young.” Chaunders held the report he and his team meticulously created based on scrupulous notes over the last seven weeks. He didn’t have to look at it during his briefing with Dr. Williams. He memorized everything about this case.
“During the explosion at the St. Paul lab, the subject suffered an injury to his prefrontal cortex. As you know, that location in the brain is widely believed to house long-term memory. Per your orders, we conducted a battery of tests to be sure the memories were wiped clean. Every test came back as definitive as scientifically possible.
“He truly has no memory of ever leaving the Facility. He knows nothing of the Winters. As far as he’s concerned, the worst thing he’s ever done is refused to kill his brother at the Match.” Chaunders stopped talking and risked looking at Williams for insight into what he was thinking. His face was a bloody, blank slate.
“As we’ve completed the last of the testing you requested the chemical induced coma is no longer necessary.” Chaunders waited for his boss to say something.
Only the sound of the metallic spheres scraping against one another could be heard in the otherwise silent room.
After a few minutes, he could wait no longer. “Your orders, sir?” Chaunders carefully prompted.
Dr. Williams walked up to the one-way window and studied the sleeping body of Creed Young. He looked the picture of health. As the doctor thought, his lips began pursing together and puckering—pursing and puckering, repeatedly. He didn’t know this about himself, but he only performed the grotesque movements when deep in thought.
Dr. Chaunders watched as fresh cracks formed around the flesh that should have been lips. The juice oozing from those fissures in the raw skin looked too dark to be blood. Williams paid no attention to the scrutiny from the other man in the room. He was deep in thought.
Creed could be the perfect subject for his next level of testing. Just for the sheer joy of it, a certain idea had been spinning wildly in his sadistic mind. The thought occurred to him a couple of months back when nostalgia had him remembering the bird’s nest he found as child. Cracking open the shells to study the wet, giant-eyed, unhatched embryonic birds inside brought his first thrill. Maybe, after all this time, he just needed to get back to basics. Maybe he just needed t
o recreate a similar situation where he could—investigate the inner workings of an embryo. And what would be more interesting than a metahuman embryo? Yes, the idea made the corners of his mouth curl is anticipation.
This young man, whether he remembered it or not, cherished family. And though he had no memory of his treachery, he still needed to be justly punished.
Yes, I think he would be the perfect specimen for his next line of testing, Dr. Williams cooed to himself imagining the torment on the soldier’s face when he realized what was in store for him.
“I will allow the metasoldier to awaken after we perform one last procedure. But, once he is awakened, keep him in seclusion. I don’t want him in contact with any other metas. Tell him he is being punished for his disobedience at the Match and is to follow a rigorous training regime to rebuild his body to peak performance.” The Director smiled his wide, toothless grin.
“And tell the team I require a meeting with them all in exactly one hour in the conference room. I’ll explain the required procedure then.” The last he said even as he strode out of the lab. He had some plotting to do and was very excited at the idea.
He slipped the two spheres into the front pocket of his three-piece suit and removed his handkerchief. The scent was stronger than he had felt it in months. There it was—his strawberries and lilies, coming to visit him.
He patted the flesh that should have been his nose, blocking all outside smells for a moment and just breathed. Yes. It was definitely her. His sweet daughter, in all her innocence, had come to pay him a call.
How considerate of her!
Williams walked briskly from the hospital, across the courtyard and into his administration building. He never noticed the wide girth everyone at the Facility gave him when he was out among his soldiers. It didn’t even occur to him to notice the grimaces at his appearance. None of that mattered to Williams. He thought on such an ethereal level; the peons around him may as well have been gnats.
Winter's Wrath: Sacrifice (Winter's Saga #3) Page 12