by Joshua Guess
“What happened here? I would think it a birth mark but it’s far too regular. Some kind of wound?”
I nodded. “I was shot there several months ago. Healed about twice as fast as it should have, according to my nurse. Almost can’t see it now.”
He leaned in, oblivious to the watching eyes of today’s guard, and squinted as he examined the spot. “May I?”
“May you what? So long as you don’t lick me or anything, go nuts.”
He chuckled, then proceeded to do the thing doctors do where they poke the living shit out of you. Took him a good thirty seconds of jamming his fingers into my shoulder like virgin on his first date before he straightened. “Fascinating. No scar tissue at all, from what I can see. Not on your skin and not below the surface. We’ll have to get some imaging done to get a better idea of what’s happening there.”
He backed away a few steps. “Now, we need to trigger a bout of Shivers. I’m not inclined to upset you by forcing it to happen at the end of a gun, so I’m open to suggestions if you have any.”
“I’ll do it myself, thanks,” I said.
John cocked his head. “I’m sorry?”
I shot him a glance. “I said I’ll do it on my own. No need to come at me swinging a scalpel or anything.”
“Ah,” he said. “I see. Please proceed, then.”
I looked at the room full of equipment, thinking of how many times I would have to trigger myself, how much damage it could do to my heart and blood vessels, and I got angry. It wasn’t a difficult emotion to cultivate, all things considered, but now I let it take over.
The change was immediate. The doctor rushed forward to connect the leads dangling from patches on my chest to the first machine, and I got to work.
It took a while. The more effort I put in while I was enduring the Shivers, the longer the episode lasted. It was a cyclical effect, one that caused elevated hormone levels and was reinforced by those same hormones. Calming down told my body to begin shutting the process down, but lifting weights, hitting the treadmill, and slapping pop-up targets to test my reflexes kept the blood pumping.
In the next hour I had to trigger six times. Even two months earlier the same effort would have needed twice as many attempts.
When I was done, man, I was done. I stepped off the treadmill and grabbed a towel, the sudden lack of forward motion enough for my body to punch the clock. I blacked out long enough to find myself magically on the floor, staring up at a ceiling framed by several worried faces. Their mouths were moving and I recognized the existence of speech, but my brain filtered it as meaningless noise.
By the time things started making sense again, I had been hauled into a trauma room and was being checked over by a small crowd of people.
“That sucked all the dicks,” I said, waving off the group of concerned and curious doctors. “Can we not do that again.”
John motioned for everyone to take a step back, then rested his hands on the foot of my bed. “How do you feel?”
I took stock for all of half a second. “Like the Jolly Green Giant took a shit on my soul. How are you?”
John’s gaze was kind, but intense. “Glad to see your sense of humor survived intact. What I mean is how specifically do you feel bad? Aches, sharp pains, be as clear as you can.”
I took another look at the faces surrounding me, all new except for John and the guard, and absorbed just how worried their expressions were. “Aches, but not different from any workout I’ve had. No sharp pains. My chest burns a little.” I glanced down and saw a few irritated circles where someone had ripped away the leads. “Which I guess makes sense. Why? What the fuck happened? Did I have a seizure?”
John shook his head. “No, and that’s surprising. We’ve seen the symptoms decrease and even vanish over time, but in my experience that level of activity should have given you at least one. What you suffered was a severe drop in blood pressure. I hesitate to call it a faint, because pressure that low is usually associated with internal bleeding. Yet you began improving almost immediately. You nearly bottomed out.”
I shifted my weight on the hospital bed. “So, what, I’m defective or something? Left side of the Trigger bell curve?”
“Just the opposite,” said a man whose white coat highlighted his carrot-red hair. “Your variance—that is, the difference between your normal capabilities and your heightened state—is in the top ten percent. With corresponding negative effects, apparently.”
“We want to keep you here overnight for observation,” another doctor said, this time an older woman whose long gray hair framed gorgeous features. “Normally we’d put you in housing at this point, but we want to make sure you’re well before we let you move around too much.”
There were few places in the world I hated more than hospitals. Being stuck in a bed, being checked on, measured, and constantly bothered grated on my nerves with an almost physical pain.
But I was tired beyond description. I didn’t have it in me to argue when there wasn’t any choice in the matter to begin with.
“Fine. Could someone get me some food, though? I’m starving.”
Probably the wrong word to use with people who examined Reavers on a daily basis, but I didn’t care. By the time my tray arrived, however, sleep had claimed me with wide open arms.
I had bad dreams. That was nothing new; I’ve been having nightmares since I was little. These were not of the many days trapped in the cells beneath the fellowship hall shared by my cult. Nor of its angry members who hunted me down in the years following, assaulting me when they had the chance.
These were dreams of falling. Of my body giving out all at once, leaving me a prisoner inside it. Dreams of weakness and immobilizing fear, demons I vowed to exorcise the day I turned sixteen.
I woke to darkness, pale shafts of moonlight rendering my small room ghostly. Surrounded by the faint humming of monitors and the shadowed teeth of medical equipment rendered monstrous in the dim light, I started in a moment of abject terror.
“Try not to move,” said a voice from the deep shadows near the door. “You could hurt yourself.”
“Who the fuck,” I said, caught by surprise. “Why are you creeping around my room? Jesus.”
The figure moved into the wan light, showing me Garcia. “I’m not creeping. Just keeping an eye on you. Docs were pretty worried.”
“Is this what it’s going to be like?” I asked.
Garcia wasn’t stupid. She knew exactly what I meant.
It took her a while to answer. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen them run anyone to exhaustion that way before. There’s a lot of hell being raised over my head about it. My boss is not happy.”
I nodded, the gesture lost in the darkness. “It was fucking scary. I’d rather fight a zombie any day.”
Garcia chuckled, then I felt her weight settle on the foot of the bed. “I can’t believe you call them that. Sounds like something a kid would say.”
“They’re dead people who walk around killing and eating live people,” I retorted. “Seems pretty accurate to me.”
“Silly,” Garcia said. “But if it works for you, who am I to argue?”
There was a long silence between us.
Then: “I wanted you to know I’m not okay with this. Any of this.”
Her words didn’t have that same, slightly false quality as before. She came off sincere, though my heart had long since hardened against taking that at face value. I let my defenses slip just a little on the way here, gave in to my desire to see this in a positive light. And maybe I could. Or should. But not without giving every aspect of this place the scrutiny it deserved.
“But you’re going to keep me here,” I said simply.
Garcia’s head bobbed. “Yeah, I am. Because those are my orders. Today was a shit show. They shouldn’t have pushed you so hard, or made you push yourself. What we’re doing is important, I know that. It’s why I stayed instead of leaving like so many others did when Zero happened.”
; I heard the emphasis she gave the word. “Zero?”
“The day it all went down. The day the plague went active. One of the commanding officers back at my base said it reset everything back to zero, and it kind of stuck. Point is, I stayed instead of going back to California to look for my family because these eggheads needed protection. I believe in the mission, but I’m starting to worry some people are losing sight that you’re people, too.”
I sighed. “No, I don’t think they are. I just think it’s a question of value. I’m more important as a data set than as a human being. If you could end all this by shooting me right now, you’d do it. Right?”
Garcia fidgeted. “I want to say no, but yeah. Probably.”
“Of course you would. Maybe some people would throw down the gun, but if you knew my death would save millions, you’d pull the trigger on me ten times out of ten. And really, I pushed myself. The doc gets some of the blame for letting me, but I was pissed off and knew I was overdoing it.”
“Just take it a little easier from now on, okay?” Garcia said. “I’ve never liked having to do this, but it always made sense. But today just seemed reckless.”
I laughed. “It was, but that was on me. Look, I want to get out of here. From what I can see, that means cooperating as much as possible. I don’t want to be chained up or shot, so no heroics from me. I want what I do here to help, the faster the better. I’ll try to stay nice and calm.”
“You know, I somehow doubt that will actually be the case. You seem like the kind of woman who likes to start shit.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I’m the kind of woman who prefers to finish shit.”
Garcia chuckled. “That’s a great line. Try to keep that tough act in mind next time you end up in a hospital bed, okay? I’m going to stand outside your door and let you get some sleep. Before I go off shift, I think I’ll have a word with the captain about the treatment of his patients.”
Before I could argue against her rocking the boat, Garcia was on her feet and moving. I heard the soft click of the door closing and turned to face the window. The glass was protected by a mesh of heavy wire, sending oddly geometric shadows spilling across my bed.
I tried hard not to think how much it made me look caught in the web of a giant spider.
8
My room was nice. Not luxury hotel nice, but way more comfortable than I expected. The patient dorms, as they were called, were attached to the medical facilities by an enclosed walkway. It was chain link all around. To get out into the courtyard, a guard had to let us through the double set of sealed doors in the front of the dorm.
I didn’t go outside right away. Instead I took an hour to stow my gear and check out the dorm itself. There wasn’t a ton to see other than my own room and the common area. It looked like most of the other residents preferred to stay either holed up in their own rooms or outside. We didn’t have a kitchen to speak of, just a tiny dining area and a fridge. Unlike the medical suite, the walls were bare and boring.
I considered knocking on a few doors to introduce myself to people and get a feel for the place, but decided against it. If my fellow test subjects wanted to get to know me, they’d come out and do it. Maybe someone would speak to me at meal time.
After learning the layout of the place, I went outside.
“Thanks,” I said to the soldier who let me through.
He was a big guy and armed to the teeth, but his dark face was kind as he smiled. The expression crinkled the corners of his eyes. “First time out, huh? Just got here?”
I craned my head to look up at him, equally a function of his height and my lack of it. “Guess you don’t see many new faces from day to day, huh?”
“That,” he said with a tiny nod, “and not many of them come out here much. Like to stay inside. I guess seeing all of us out here with guns reminds them how they got here.”
A thought hit me. “Where can I find Zeke? The guy who does the radio broadcast. I’d like to talk with him if he has time.”
The guard looked at me like I was crazy, then seemed to realize what I was talking about. “Oh, no. That guy isn’t here. He’s at another research base. Bigger one. We just rebroadcast for him. All the active units do.”
“Another one?” I said. “How many of these things are there?” I tried not to think about the number of people taken from their homes and friends—and dogs—to feed the driven researchers at a potential dozen, two dozen such places.
“Sorry,” the guard said. “Can’t tell you that. Go and have a look around. Any door that opens for you will be somewhere you’re allowed in. Everything else uses key pads.”
The implied ‘don’t do anything stupid’ was clear. “Have any suggestions?”
The big man looked toward the main gate, and I followed his line of sight. To my surprise, it stood open. A cluster of people milled around one side of it.
“If you’re mechanically inclined, I’d start there. Damn thing has been giving us a bunch of trouble.”
I trotted over to the busted gate, several wary gazes falling on me from a number of sources. The guards sitting atop their metal perches along the wall didn’t sight down their weapons at me, but they tracked me closely. A few of the people standing around the busted door seemed to oscillate between concerned and hopeful.
“Need some help?” I asked as I slowed to a stop. I was keenly aware how close I was to the open door even if I had no intention of walking through it. A mad part of me gamed out the possibility and understood the only realistic conclusion was being shot or hauled back in minutes.
The man currently buried halfway in the wall via an open access panel shouted to me over his shoulder. “You got any experience with electric motors and industrial locking systems? Because this thing is giving me fits.”
I searched my memory like a computer addict sifting through his files. I’d done more than a few jobs for appliance and engineering companies. I had a little experience as a small engine mechanic and took some engineering courses in school. I tried to dredge up everything I could remember.
“Not specifically,” I said. “But I can take a look. I won’t do anything without asking first.”
The man’s body jerked, followed by a loud clang and cursing so blue it impressed even me. “Fine, have at it. I need a fucking break.”
He pulled himself free, dusty all over and streaked with runnels of sweat, and stood up. He had an open, handsome face somewhat clouded by his obviously terrible mood. With a sweep of his hand, he invited me to climb in the service hatch.
There were several electric motors inside. One was large, presumably able to move the steel gate that had to weigh in at a ton and a half, minimum. Two more operated a complex set of latches and gears attached to a groove running down the length of the door. The lock, it seemed.
I looked over my shoulder. “Can it still close? Because I’m kind of worried about it not being able to close, all things considered.”
“Yeah,” the handsome man said, crossing his arms. “We have to open the hatch there to manually disengage the lock, though. Then haul it across the runners by hand and use the hand locks on the other side. Takes five or six people to move it, and you about bust a gut every time.”
I positioned myself so I was clear of any moving parts. “Okay, let me get a fresh look at what’s going on. Try to close it with the switch so I can see what we’re dealing with here.”
“Isn’t gonna work,” said the handsome man. “Motor comes on, it’ll jump a little in its tracks, then resets itself. Has to be a software problem. Whatever little circuit board runs that thing must have fried.”
I counted to three inside my head. “I believe you, but I’d still like to see it for myself.”
He grunted discontentedly. “Whatever, lady. One more try won’t make it worse, I guess.”
A hum filled the small space, deep and powerful enough to shake the lantern hanging just inside. I observed and saw exactly what I had been told I would see. “Again, please
.”
I watched a different part of the process the second time. Then a third. When I asked for a fourth repeat, footsteps crunched through the grass to stop just outside the maintenance hatch. “You actually see something that might be more clear by round four, or are you just afraid of looking dumb?”
I pulled myself clear and stood to face the dusty-faced man. “You’re a good-looking dude. Is that why you’re a dick? Because you think being pretty will let you get away with it?”
Anger flashed across his face. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
I shrugged. “So far as I can tell, I’m the woman who figured out what’s wrong with your gate in five minutes after you’ve apparently been working on it all morning.”
He was surprised enough to knock the wind completely out of his sails. “What? How?”
“By not making assumptions about the cause of the problem,” I said. “I think the guts are working fine. There’s probably a sensor designed to stop the motor from burning itself out when the gate is obstructed. The problem is in the lock somewhere. Otherwise it wouldn’t even be trying to move.”
It was logical. Hell, it was easy. It didn’t take much to figure it out, but this guy had missed it. As I really took him in, I realized how. I’d taken him for a mechanic of some kind by doing exactly what I had accused him of: making assumptions. He wasn’t. Every inch the soldier, the guy was blond and built like Captain America.
Fact: something as important as the only gate through the wall, a crucial piece of infrastructure keeping zombies out and people safe, would have been worked on by the best mechanic available.
Which meant there wasn’t one available. Which led to a cascading realization that this place was probably staffed only by the researchers in the medical center and soldiers without the kind of specializations that would let them repair vital elements.