Monument 14: Savage Drift (Monument 14 Series) (25 page)

“I see Sandy’s got you on the soft restraints. That’s her call to make. Fine with me.”

I can tell he’d like to sit on the edge of the bed, but he doesn’t.

“So, Josie, I’d like to know a little about your background. Would you mind telling me about your experience before you were picked up in Parker?”

I nod okay.

“Were you outside during the initial release?”

I must look confused, because he clarifies. “When the leak occurred from NORAD, were you outside? Were you exposed at that point?”

“No,” I tell him. “I wasn’t exposed until almost two weeks later. I was safe, inside a big building. When we tried to get to Denver, that’s when I was exposed.”

He’s making notes on his minitab with a stylus as fast as he can.

Sandy comes in, under the pretense of checking my IV, but I think she mainly wants to hear my story.

“See, this little kid Max was being attacked, and I knew, at that point, that I was O. The soldier attacking him was pretty out of it. I knew I could take him if I went O, so I took off my face mask.”

Sandy’s listening, her expression sympathetic.

Dr. Cutlass is just nodding, writing.

“And how long were you exposed at that point?”

“About three days. It’s hard to say, exactly. It was dark out there.”

“During that period, do you remember … were you completely out of control, or were you able to make any decisions?”

Dr. Cutlass looks up at me. My answer is very important to him.

“I was able to make decisions.”

“I knew it!”

“I was in control enough not to hurt my friends. That was pretty much all I could do—make the decision not to kill. But at Mizzou, when the drift hit, I found I had even more control than the first time I was exposed.”

Dr. Cutlass starts pacing now, in the small room.

“This is very exciting,” he says. He brings up another page on his minitab.

“Listen to what they wrote about you at Mizzou: ‘During the drift, Miller tried to save two small children. When every single other inmate was intent on murder and violence, Miller was seen breaking up a fight between the children and trying to get them to safety.’”

I sit up in my bed, my bonds tightening on my wrists.

“Who wrote that?” I ask.

“A doctor there.”

“Was it Dr. Quarropas?”

He looks.

“Yes, J. Quarropas.”

“Are you in touch with him?”

“Not to speak of. Why?” Cutlass asks me.

“I’d like to know … I’d like to know if my kids are okay,” I tell him.

Hope surges into my heart, catching me off guard.

Sandy, rearranging the sheets at the foot of the bed, pats one of my ankles.

Dr. Cutlass looks at me. He’s thinking it over.

“I tell you what. I’ll think about trying to get in touch with him and find out, but I need you to think about something, too.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Josie, I think that you are special. I think that you have the ability to exert conscious control over your mind when in a MORS-exposed state.”

“MORS?” I ask.

“MORS is the name of the warfare compound that was released in the Four Corners area,” he quickly explains. “What I need from you is just a sample of spinal fluid.”

He goes on to say that it’s a simple procedure, and there are a few risks, but they will be especially careful because I’m such an important subject and if I agree to it, he will have me released soon thereafter and all kinds of other things he thinks will make me go along with it.

And I might have, too, if it weren’t for this: As soon as Dr. Cutlass says “sample of spinal fluid,” Sandy’s head snaps up. She is still at the foot of the bed, behind Dr. Cutlass. Her eyes are wide, scared, and her mouth tightens into a pinched line.

And she shakes her head no. Quickly. No.

“So let’s do this,” Dr. Cutlass is saying. “You give me the names of those kids and I’ll find out what I can. Then, if you sign the release form, we’ll be all set.”

“Wait. How do you get spinal fluid?” I ask.

“Oh. Didn’t I say?”

I shake my head.

“We do a spinal tap. Really, this is something we do all the time.”

I can’t help it. My eyes dart to Sandy.

Dr. Cutlass sees this and turns to look at her over his shoulder. He shoots her a cold look. A freezing cold look.

“Hun,” she says. “I’m gonna go see about your lunch!”

Dr. Cutlass turns back to me, plastering a reassuring smile up on his face.

“We do it every day,” he says. “So. Tell me the names of your friends. You know, maybe I could even get them transferred to a safer facility.”

I know what this is. This is a bribe.

I give him the names.

I tell him I will think about it.

I see him decide that that’s the best he’s going to get, for now.

“You rest up, Josie Miller,” he tells me. “You and I have a lot of important work ahead of us.”

*   *   *

When I wake up, Sandy is fiddling with my IV.

“Sandy?” I ask her. “Is everything okay?”

She nods yes.

“It’s all good, my little peapod.”

But I know it’s not good. I know that she has an opinion about the testing Dr. Cutlass proposed.

“I’ve been wondering, if you’re feeling better, you want to get up a bit? Go for a walk?”

“Yes, please!”

She laughs.

Then she says, “See? It pays to cooperate. Dr. Cutlass said he finds you amenable and docile. That’s good news for you. Means you get to walk around a bit.”

There’s something wrong with her voice. It’s flat, somehow.

I catch her eye and she quickly looks over to the corner, directing me to look there.

Then she puts her hand on my leg.

“Let’s get these straps off,” and she turns me so I am facing the corner she just indicated with her eyes.

I see it.

A little silver half-sphere, up in the corner.

A security camera.

We’re being watched and recorded.

So she’s got to say the right thing.

“We’re gonna take it slow, sweet girl. But I thought I’d give you a little tour of the Zone Four testing and premium rehabilitation suites of USAMRIID.”

*   *   *

After she removes the straps, and the catheter, I get to stand up.

My legs buckle under me and Sandy supports me. She’s so short her shoulder fits perfectly under my armpit.

“Take it easy, now. Just see how standing feels. Might be I should get you a wheelchair.”

“No,” I tell her. “I want to walk. Really, I do.”

I put my arm around her shoulders. She’s small and wiry. Strong.

We have to roll around my IV, but it’s okay. I can lean on it a bit.

I take two, three slow steps away from my bed.

“Sandy, before we go in the hall…”

“Hmm?”

“Can I see how I look?”

*   *   *

The bathroom has a shower, a sink, and a toilet. Everything is tiny and compact. In the golden-colored light of my tiny bathroom, I am surprised. I like what I see.

My hair is gone. Shorn off. It’s very close to the skin, but I like it.

It makes me look like a grown-up. And it makes me look tough.

And when I think about it, I guess I am both those things.

*   *   *

I’m able to walk okay, after those first few moments.

My body feels a little sore and tired, but God knows it’s felt worse.

The hallway looks like a regular hospital, but I see, after peeking in one or two of the rooms, that there are no windows.

“There’s facilities in Fort Bragg and Fort Benning and other places, but they pick all the most promising cases and send them here to us,” Sandy tells me as we walk.

Many of the doors are closed, but in one I see a huge, hulking guy restrained on a bed. In another there’s a man visiting a crying woman, who sits on her bed in a gown like mine.

“Are we allowed to have visitors?” I ask.

“Sometimes.” Sandy sighs. She points to a metal door with a large window. The glass is shot through with steel mesh. An armed guard stands on the other side.

She waves to him. He nods back a fraction of an inch.

“Every doorway to the stairwell on every floor is guarded, twenty-four/seven. Nobody gets in here who shouldn’t be, don’t you worry.”

She pats my arm.

Her words are telling one story on the surface, but I feel like there’s a subtext—don’t try to run.

“The security’s even tight for us. Retina checks on every floor. It’s all designed for the utmost safety for everyone who works here.”

She’s telling me they check identity at every door. I’d need stolen eyeballs to escape.

We walk along and suddenly I get tired.

The energy just goes out of me.

“We’re underground,” she says, waving hello to another nurse. “That’s why you don’t see any windows.”

There’s a humming noise, getting louder, and I see we’re nearing a room where a man is using an industrial floor polisher.

“I’m getting tired,” I say.

“Just a bit more,” she tells me.

I don’t want to go anymore. I want to sleep.

But she keeps walking until we’re right by the guy with the polisher and it’s loud.

She leans into me.

“Don’t sign the consent form,” she says in my ear. “The spinal tap he wants to do, it’s too dangerous for people like you.”

I watch the man moving the polisher in a circle. He looks up and I see him catch Sandy’s eye.

“Dr. Cutlass is a good man, but he’s … he’s lost … perspective. Those spinal taps are not safe for people like you. Other people, yes, maybe. But not Os who’ve been exposed. Not skinny-minnies like you. Got it?”

Chills creep up my spine. I nod.

She turns me and we head back to my room.

“And you didn’t hear it from me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

DEAN

DAY 35

I carried Astrid to the car. She winced in the sunlight when I brought her outside.

“Bye!” Rinée said.

“We’re coming back,” I told her and J.J., who stood gaping on the stoop, as Lea helped me to put Astrid in the passenger seat.

“Bye, Ean!” Rinée repeated. Frankly, she seemed happy for us to go.

*   *   *

I drove. Astrid was moaning. The motion of the car was bothering her. Every bump we hit made her cry aloud.

“Please,” I told her, handing her the squeeze bottle of water that Lea had put in the cup holder. “Take a sip. Please.”

She obliged me.

Her hand was trembling violently, going for the bottle.

I got us on the highway, headed north.

“Are you feeling any better?” I asked.

She had her head hanging down, resting her elbows on the dash.

She vomited again, looking up at me with fear in her eyes. Green bile slick on her chin.

“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s going to be okay.”

She leaned against the window and I hit eighty. If a cop pulled me over, good. Maybe he’d give us an escort.

“Almost there, almost there,” I said. Though I had no idea how far Joplin was or how long it would take us to get there.

“It’s just a flu,” I told her. “They’ll get you fixed right up.”

“My head,” she cried. “It hurts so bad.”

Then she started shaking.

Her head whipped back and she was convulsing, arms flailing.

I cursed and swerved.

“Astrid! Astrid!” I shouted.

I pulled onto the shoulder and the cars screaming past wailed their horns.

I tried to hold her. Was I supposed to put my hand in her mouth to stop her from biting her tongue? I couldn’t remember and then she went limp.

“Astrid? Astrid!” I called to her.

She was unconscious.

A sob wrenched free from my chest.

What to do?

I got out. Tried to flag down a car.

“HELP!” I yelled. “Somebody help me!”

None of them stopped.

Nobody would stop!

Then I saw an Army truck approaching.

It was one, and behind it were others.

I got back in the car, belted myself in, and hit the gas.

The first truck had just passed as I got up to speed.

There were eight or ten big olive-drab trucks in the convoy and a flatbed truck carrying two of the same kind of jeeps we had seen in Roufa’s cargo plane back in Texas.

I honked at them, trying to wave them down, but they sped past me.

In a flash, they were ahead and I was behind. They were leaving me, literally, in the dust.

The last truck was filled with soldiers, and as I honked and waved my hand out the window, begging for them to stop, a soldier smoking a cigarette popped his head out and looked at me.

“Please stop!” I shouted, though of course he couldn’t hear. “I need help! I need help!”

The soldier took his cigarette and flicked it at me. Then started laughing and pulled his head back inside the canvas cover.

My foot slammed on the gas, like it belonged to someone else. I pushed the little Mazda for all it had, 80—85—90, and pulled up next to that last truck.

I saw the soldier in the passenger seat look at me, puzzled, and then I brought the Mazda closer and closer to the truck.

I would push him off the road, into the median. I would get their godforsaken help. I was going to get it.

The truck pulled onto the median and I heard a screech of heavy metal as it braked to a stop.

I slid out behind it, almost ramming it from behind.

Holy almighty, what had I done?

My door was jerked open and a muscle-bound soldier hauled me out by my shirt and slammed me into the car.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? You wanna get yourself shot?!”

“My girlfriend and I are wanted by the United States Army Medical Research lab for medical testing,” I said. “We’re turning ourselves in.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

JOSIE

DAY 35

Dr. Cutlass comes to me in the late afternoon.

Every time I see him I’m struck by his hair. It’s always perfect. Wavy and brown, gray at the temples, and the soft curls combed or gelled into place.

He has his minitab and a thick manila folder.