Well, he'd wanted realism, and he'd gotten it. His hired paramedic had responded to a real person in distress. And since—in paramedic Aaron Walters’ mind—it was all part of a video in support of his profession, Samuelson couldn't very well ride him for his professionalism. But, it had certainly got in the way.
* * * *
Rick lay there for a moment, wishing briefly that he could just give it all up and stay here. Maybe Jace is better now, he thought, and very nearly convinced himself. If it hadn't been for the chilliness of the sheet against his skin, he might have been tempted to lie there.
But he couldn't stand it. He was so hot and the sheet so cold, that it just made him shudder more. He checked for the tenth time that the small vial of diluted serum was still taped to his upper arm, then poked his head between the curtains. He saw his helper disappear around the corner, and he did likewise—in the opposite direction. With his eyes lowered, slouched down against the pain in his chest, and half buried in Johnson's big coat, he entered the elevator, and pushed the button for the seventh floor.
There was another man in the elevator. He stood there quietly, unobtrusively, until the doors had closed and they'd begun to move. Then, he calmly reached over and pulled the “Stop” button. “Dr. Lockmann?” he said, smiling. “We have a car waiting.”
Rick had never seen the man before. “Are you DSO?” he asked quietly.
“No. But we still have your welfare in mind.” He flipped open his phone, and told whoever was on the other end, “He's with me. He's still on his feet, but have a team ready.”
“What do you want?”
Samuelson repeated the words Chesner had used to convince him. “You have the solution to world hunger literally at your fingertips, Dr. Lockmann. It's not something that can be hidden away, or denied to the masses. Everyone should have a shot at it.”
Rick found himself agreeing with the guy. Put that way, it seemed like it was awfully selfish of him not to put himself on the chopping block. “Bits and pieces for everyone,” he muttered, not realising he was speaking out loud. “Everyone should have a shot at me,” he chuckled. “Some of them already have—”
Samuelson wasn't sure what to do. Lockmann wasn't putting up a fight, but it wasn't going to be easy getting him out of here, either. Not if his present fit of levity was any example. “I think you can see that it's the right thing to do, Lockmann,” Ian persevered.
“Blood and guts for everyone.” Rick knew his mind was roaming, but he couldn't seem to help it. “You want me to come, they want to take me, DSO wants to hide me. What d'I want?” he slurred. He shook his head to clear it. “I want to help Jace.”
“If you help us, you'll be helping everyone—including Jace.”
* * * *
“I put him in there. He can't have gone too far. The guy was so hot he was almost delirious.”
The intern on duty looked doubtful, but Sheryl Matthews had known Aaron Walters for a long time. “What did he look like?” she asked.
“Tall and real skinny, with the weirdest green eyes I've ever seen. He was dressed in a baggy brown coat.”
But, Sheryl had stopped listening after the “weirdest green eyes” comment. She pushed through the doors, and ran over to the DSO men on the door. “I think Rick's in the building!” she told them. “A man with his description just came into emergency.”
“Where's he now?”
Sheryl shrugged helplessly. “I don't know. He was here, and then disappeared.”
Maraimis’ eyes met Chan's. “It's him,” she said bluntly. “Disappearing acts are his specialty.” She popped open her phone. In less than five minutes, they'd been joined by Johnson and Allens.
* * * *
Rick blinked, and reached out swiftly, to push back in the “Stop” button. The elevator started upwards once again. “Jace can't wait,” he said simply.
Samuelson pulled out a gun, and shoved it into Rick's side. “When the doors open, don't move,” he ordered. “We're going back to two.” He added calmly, “I have people waiting there.”
The doors slid open on seven. As they started to close once more, Rick snatched the gun with unbelievable speed and pointed it at Samuelson. He hit the front of the doors, and they slid open once again. “Too bad, Mr. Whoever-You-Are,” Rick grumbled. “I have people waiting here.” As the doors started to slide closed, Rick added, “But I'll remember what you said—”
Rick had also pocketed the man's phone, and he punched in Hylton's number.
“Hylton.”
“There are some people with guns on level two at the hospital,” Rick told him. “They'll be leaving any minute now.” He could hear Hylton's spluttering in the background, and grinned foolishly. Then, he disappeared into the nearest room, and went directly to the window. He could hear the thud of running feet in the hallway, but the sound swiftly disappeared as he climbed out on to the ledge.
He couldn't take the coat any more—it was just too hot. He shed it on the ledge, then watched, frowning, as a gust of wind caught it, and sent it tumbling over the edge. He patted the gun and the phone in his pockets, just to make sure he still had them. “There goes Johnson's claim to fame,” he muttered. He watched, worried that the books in the pockets might land on someone's head. “Whew!” he exclaimed, when they rebounded off the top of the ambulance, nearly landing on two men who'd just come charging out the emergency doors.
Then, he crawled, for what seemed like forever.
* * * *
“It's my coat!” Johnson looked shocked. It had practically landed on his head.
The helicopter had made an impromptu landing in the parking lot. Hylton ran up, and Cole raced past him, and into the hospital. Cole said to Johnson, as he ran by, “He said he'd return it!”
“Where're you going, Calloway?” Steven yelled, exasperated.
“Up to Jason's room. That's where he'll be—”
“Don't go into the room! Wait for Rodrigal!” he yelled to Calloway's back. Calloway gave a half-wave, which Steven interpreted correctly to mean that Cole would do what he thought was best.
Hylton glanced up, then told Johnson, “He's on the outside of the building.” He gave the man a shove. “Go!” He flipped open his phone, and spoke to the helicopter pilot. “Lockmann's on the outside of the building. See if you can spot him.”
* * * *
Rick pulled open Jason's window with his eyes closed. He was half afraid Jason might have already perished—that there'd be nothing left to save.
It was almost as bad as he'd imagined. Jace's face was swollen, and Rick didn't know if it was the due to the swelling in his glands, or the pressure on his brain. If Rick hadn't known who it was, he never would have recognised him. The only thing keeping him “alive” was the respirator, that triggered every breath. Rick felt tears welling up in his eyes, and he unconsciously rubbed the vial taped to his arm.
Am I doing the right thing?
I recovered. But my lungs are gone—destroyed by the infection.
Rick looked down at his friend. Jace had an advantage. He'd been given Rick's own antibodies, to help control the virus.
“What about his brain?” he whispered. Would Jace want to live, if he couldn't think, couldn't move?
If there's a chance, I have to take it. I told Jace I would. I promised him.
My lungs went because I got pneumonia, too. Because there was no Rick Lockmann with antibodies in his blood. Maybe—when the swelling goes down in Jace's head—? He wouldn't let himself think beyond it.
There was a noise in the room beyond. Someone was getting dressed to come in here. Rick used the scissors to cut away the tape that bound the vial to his arm. Then he grabbed a syringe, and filled it with shaking hands. Before he could think about it any more, he depressed the plunger, shooting the solution into the IVI that was already tied into Jason's veins.
If they find out, Jace'll become a specimen—like me. Rick wobbled over to the window, bound the lot in the tape, and tossed syringe,
plunger, and vial away, where they'd plummet into the shrubbery far below. Then, he turned back, stumbled to the bed, and gripped Jason's hand. “I'm sorry, Jace,” he said over and over again, unaware that he was crying. The relief—of having done what he'd set out to do—was so great that it was like a great weight off his chest.
Only the weight was still there. Now that he didn't have a mission to keep him going, Rick was aware of the pain radiating through his chest. He gave Jason's hand one last squeeze, then pushed himself to his feet.
The door swung open, and Rick stared stupidly at the figure in isolation gear. “I did it, Cole,” he said simply.
Cole grabbed his arm and kept him on his feet. He stared at Jason for a moment, his expression appalled, then turned away, unable to bear the sight of Jason's deterioration. “Did it, schmid it,” he complained, as he hauled Rick out of the room. “What is this—a race? To see which of you can die first?” Cole asked in an angry whisper, using it to mask his concern. Then, seeing the pained expression on Rick's face, he said more quietly, “And this bad habit you've picked up—of taking away other people's guns. Is that another one hanging out of your pocket?”
Rick didn't answer. Instead, he mumbled, “I lost Johnson's coat.”
“He got it,” Cole told him. “Airmail.”
By now they were surrounded. Rick was dimly aware of Denis Rodrigal's face in his. “Try charcoal, Denis,” he muttered. “For the poiso—” Then, he didn't remember anything more.
* * * *
Jason was awakened by the sound of someone talking incessantly. It took him a while to realise it was him. Somehow, the stress of his experience had triggered a replay of the stress he'd undergone during his finals at med school. He'd been reciting a list of disease symptoms and their probable causes, and his dry throat told him the list had been a long one. He told himself to shut up, then realised in confusion that he'd already stopped. It was someone else talking now.
“I think I'll throw away my Grey's Anatomy,” a voice was saying. “Plus that stack of journals littering my shelves. After this, I'll never want to see them again.” The voice came closer, and Jason could hear the smile behind the words. “How are you, Jace?” the person asked.
“Thirsty,” Jace replied, forcing open his eyes. “How long have I been talking?”
“Hours—or maybe that's just the way it seems,” Denis Rodrigal replied. “We were worried about your memory after the pressure on your brain. I think that's one concern we can set aside.” He poured out some water into a cup and watched as Jace manipulated it to his lips. He nodded, obviously pleased. “That's another one. Either you're the luckiest son-of-a-bitch who ever lived, Stratton, or your case wasn't as severe as we thought. Can you wiggle your toes?”
Jason used one foot to scratch the other. Denis smiled. “One more thing—” He shone a light into Jason's eyes and checked the pupillary response. “How's your vision?”
“It was fine until you blinded me with that light,” Jace replied—but he was grinning.
“And, God knows, your speech isn't impaired. How's the headache?”
“Fading,” he yawned, “and so am I. G'night. Thanks.”
“Good night, Jace. Congratulations.”
Jason drifted to sleep on the murmur of voices.
“This morning, I had to shift his IV because the vein was starting to collapse. There's no sign of bruising now.”
“Did you tell Hylton?”
“No.”
“Phil—there's only one other person I know with the ability to heal that fast.”
Someone sighed. “Well—now maybe there're two.”
* * * *
Jace wanted to shave himself. A close, thorough job, complete with hot water and shaving cream—no matter how long it took. It was one of those personal things. And an electric shaver just wouldn't do the trick. It always left him with a five o'clock shadow by four-fifteen. He knew that a lot of his female patients celebrated their return to good health by putting on make-up. He wanted to shave.
Having someone else rub a razor across his face was as irritating as fingernails scraping a blackboard. It was the fear of being sliced, in every tremor of the razor, that got to him. Denis Rodrigal had looked doubtful, when he'd brought him the razor, but he hadn't argued. All he'd said was, “I'll have the bandaids standing by.”
Denis’ doubts only doubled Jason's annoyance when, with his shaky hands and sharp new razor, he missed, and made a nasty nick in his chin. He knew he was being childish, with his “I wanna do it myself!” attitude, but he couldn't seem to help himself. The fact that he'd cut himself only made him more determined to do a better job on the rest of his face.
He frowned. He hated razor nicks, because they bled like glass cuts, and were always so damned visible on protruding facial features.
It was particularly annoying because Denis had been uncomplainingly preparing to help him with his morning ablutions, when Jace had become insistent on doing it himself. It was just that, during his illness, Denis and Sheryl had been tending to his needs, a fact which Jason now found embarrassing. Sheryl Matthews was his boss, and Denis Rodrigal was a well-known virologist. To have either of them shaving him, or wiping his bum, was a little demoralising. This morning, Jason was determined to dispense with all offers of help, and wash all the pertinent areas himself. He also insisted on shaving, but with a razor, the way he liked, instead of an electric shaver. He'd just been given the all-clear for infection, and—in his mind—these were the first steps back to reclaiming his dignity. He'd insisted that if he was well enough to have visitors, then he was well enough to wash and shave himself.
Only he'd missed, and now he'd have to ask for a styptic pencil to stop the bleeding. Of course, missing once had made him even more nervous, and he cut himself three more times before he was through. It's going to look like I tried to commit suicide—starting with my face, Jace thought. Or that I'm trying to acquire the rudiments of plastic surgery, he grumbled silently. Or that I'm going to need plastic surgery before I'm finished with this.
It took him another five minutes to finish, and he ended feeling a strange mixture of triumph and foolishness. Sheryl came in then. “Jesus, Jace!” she exclaimed, grabbing a tissue. “What did you do to your face?” She wiped the blood away, and examined the skin underneath. “I don't get it,” she said worriedly. “Where did all this blood come from?”
He glanced in the mirror again. “I cut myself shaving,” he admitted.
“Did you ever! Were you shaving, or trying to cut your throat?” He could feel the coolness of her gloved fingers as she probed the skin along his jaw. “Where's the cut?” she asked.
He grinned, a little ruefully. “Where isn't it?” he asked.
She looked puzzled, then shrugged. “I can't find it, so it can't be too bad.” She glanced at the tissue again. “You sure bled like a son-of-a-gun, though. Maybe it's CBC time again.”
“You've done so much blood work I'm lucky I have any left—”
“Grouch. All right—we'll wait this time, but if it you notice any more tendencies to leak, I want to know about it.”
Jace frowned, but nodded. Sheryl smiled at him and left.
Afterwards, Jace brought the mirror in close, to check his jaw line for nicks, rips, and chips.
Nothing. No sign of any damage.
A chill went down Jason's backbone. Maybe his brain hadn't escaped unscathed after all. Maybe he was delusional, and had been imagining the bleeding cuts—that ugly slicing feeling.
No. Sheryl saw it, too. She even mopped it up.
Maybe I was imagining her, too.
There was another possibility. Jason had a vague memory of Rick talking—something like: “I'll only give you the healing ones, Jace.” Jace lay there, horrified, as he tried to figure out whether that had been real, or something he'd dreamed up.
Rick would never do something like that, he decided almost instantly. Not after what Caroline Denaro did to him. It wasn't even worth co
ntemplating.
If his hands had been trembling before, they were practically palsied now. No, Rick. You couldn't do this to me. I'm one of your friends.
Mutant. Jace suddenly felt like gagging. His first impulse was to run; his second, to hide under the covers until the fear went away.
Jace brought the mirror up against his face once more, and hurriedly checked his eyes, just to reassure himself. He sighed with relief. His eyes looked the same as they always had, and his skin was even paler than usual. No sign of that rich brown Rick had. Jace chided himself for being foolish—and distrustful.
But, he couldn't resist doing what came next. Very deliberately, with gritted teeth and slitty eyes, Jason ran the sharp angle of the razor in a slicing motion across his arm. He felt stupid when it began to drip blood. He quickly held a tissue to the injury before Sheryl or Denis could come in and see what he'd done.
After a minute, Jason lowered the tissue and took a close look at the skin. The wound was already scabbed over. As he stared in gaping-mouthed shock, the skin knitted, and the scab curled up and fell on to the bed.
"My God!" he whispered, terrified. Whatever else may have happened, it was obvious he wasn't the same man who'd entered this room. In that moment, Jason Stratton hated Richard Lockmann with everything he had.
Jace suddenly realised the monitor was screaming when Sheryl came tearing in the door. She stopped, panting, when she saw him sitting up in bed. The scold died on her lips when she saw the expression on his face. “You're looking a little pale,” she said mildly.
“Guess I just can't stand the sight of blood,” Jace said, but the bitter note in his voice took away the humour.
Light Plays: Book Two of The Light Play Trilogy Page 20