by Richard Dusk
When the door opened, he looked at Sarah helping Jillian walk away.
"Sarah," he said, and she turned her head to him. "About that guardian angel – he's dead to me for a long time," he said and entered the room.
I'm not coming out of that shower till tomorrow, he thought and examined the place.
A tidy air-conditioned room, though small and almost empty, waited prepared for him. A shower stall with towels hanging on a rail, ladder to bed over his head, black armchair with white Diamond mark, and piled overalls and shoes were all that filled the space. Above the chair hanged a black square panel with the power logo. He pressed it, and a screen-less display appeared on the wall. It mesmerized him. A year he didn't touch a working piece of modern technology. Garrett moved his hand to switch between old sit-coms, movies, and animated cartoons. He randomly waved hands, and all walls turned green, music began to play, and he activated the artificial personal assistant, which successfully held a conversation with itself. As he moved his fingers from side to side, color hue changed with music and assistant's voice.
Garrett pressed the button to shut it all down and began taking off the dirty clothes. A bizarre sensation. He felt like a snake shedding his skin. All these layers that protected and warmed him during freezing, dusty days and nights, he's now putting away as useless. His coat, a scraped and smelly piece of clothing that served the whole year as his bedding, was the only one he had since the beginning. Holey shirts and sweaters he often didn't change for months because he found none to replace them. Shoes and pants wore signs of many walked miles, and traces of blood from fights and injuries.
Standing in front of a mirror, he examined his upper body and sewed wounds on his hips. When he touched the grazed shoulders, he felt the irritation from the rope he carried Jillian in. He traveled with sight down his chest and belly, avoiding view on his own face. Where once he had muscles, there now stuck out only ribs under the dirt covering his body. He stretched arms in front and looked at the dry, rough skin peeling off the fingers, and the nails, each of them uneven, broken and sharp because he cut them with a knife. The bandage on his arm dried soaked with old blood, and the wound after the broken piece of the screwdriver swelled and ached.
Garrett took off the rest, put all clothes in the yellow plastic bag, and walked into the shower. He closed his eyes and let the warm water stream down to his feet. A gorgeous touch of heaven came to him. A feeling where all he went through washed away in trickles running down his naked body. It moved him to tears that ran down his face and drained off. His knees buckled. Leaned against the wall, he slid down and cried. He felt to be a human being again. Not an animal, living and struggling through every day with no certainty of tomorrow. For a moment, he could be weak and regain the strength to start another fight. He was a man who forgot all the comfort hidden behind simple turning off the tap.
When the long minutes of washing away the stress of strenuous months passed, he interrupted his sitting in the shower and took the straight razor. He remembered the smooth movement of the blade cutting the hair and thick beard. It felt the same as doing it for the first time again – a fifteen years old boy standing in front of the mirror, spreading the white foam across his beard and cheeks. When he finished, he glanced at himself. He didn't recognize the face. It wasn't the reflection he used to know, and there didn't stand the man he wanted to see. He put everything aside and turned the water off. Walls uncovered infrared tube lights, and fans blew away tiny drops of water from his skin. Just before he left, the shower sprayed him with milk-white, menthol-smelling substance all over his body to disinfect him. He got out of the shower and didn't bother to wrap himself in a towel or dress prepared clothes. Body asked for rest, and he climbed up to the bed.
"Assistant, don't dare to wake me up and shut the lights."
"Certainly sir; however, I need to bring to your attention the injuries you have. May I suggest you undergo a medical check-up?"
"Look, buddy, I survived worse than these scratches, so turn the lights off and let me sleep."
Lying in a soft, comfortable bed and squeezing a mango-flavored gel into his mouth, he didn't know if he shut his eyes or computer turned the lights off, but in no time, he was dead to the world that didn't ease up a bit in challenging him.
Chapter 11 Good Night
Jillian, limping on her left leg, walked side-by-side with Sarah holding her arm. They washed away all the dirt and dressed her in a white one-piece hospital dress fitting to her body. They also wanted to cut her hair, but she dared them to try touching it. Since the moment they left Garrett, Sarah barely said something to Jillian, who felt that tension arose in the air but didn't know why. If they let her, she would go alone.
Sarah led her through an empty gray corridor. Black floor and greenish light coming from the ceiling in the narrow space had a claustrophobic effect on Jillian. They already passed by many doors marked with letters and numbers, but there remained several dozens more.
What the hell? thought Jillian when they walked by the section labeled PARTS, and she imagined arms and legs sunken in colored preservative liquids.
"We're here," Sarah knocked on the door.
Jillian noticed a torn off name tag where only capital letter E left. They stood there less than five seconds when Sarah impatiently knocked again and walked inside.
"Elizabeth, come here. I've got one of your new patients," said Sarah in the doors of the sterile white office.
Jillian glanced around, looking for a doctor, but saw nobody.
"Finally, I've been waiting twenty minutes for you already," sounded weak, wheezy woman's voice.
"Sorry, we held up at showers to clean her a little."
Jillian looked at her with raised eyebrows, wondering about Sarah's definition of the word little as her skin burned red from all the scrubbing.
A young-looking doctor came from behind the curtain, drying her hands. Her short, messy black hair was just long enough to touch the purple-hearted, black scarf wrapped around her neck. She had quite sharp cheekbones with a beauty spot on the right one. The doctor sat at the desk and took a stethoscope from a drawer.
"Jillian, this is Elizabeth, but she prefers Lizzie. I assure you that you're in a better pair of hands than you could find anywhere in the world now. With the diagnostic tools we have, we won't miss anything," Sarah glimpsed at Lizzie. "Well, I'm not required here anymore, so I'll leave you two alone. I've got to prepare some materials for Garrett while he's resting. He didn't mention any serious injury, but he will surely come for a check-up too, so please expect him. If there is anything you'll need, just call me," she smiled and calmly walked away.
Jillian left alone with Lizzie in the silent room. She saw her curious green eyes travel all over her body to the ponytail and stopped at the pink linear scar running across her left cheek to the ear.
"I'm Jillian," she aimed to break the ice, but no response came. "You've got a nice office, doc," she pointed to embedded wave-shaped lamps above their heads.
"I'm no doctor. All medics are dead. I'm here just because I happen to know this stuff. On the bench," Lizzie nodded towards it. "What happened?" she said almost inaudibly, putting gloves on while Jillian arduously climbed up. The doctor sounded like she lost her voice not long ago.
"Well, I traveled with Garrett from Hanstown. Shortly after I met him, a twister destroyed the town hand in hand with buildings that shifted and transferred at their own will. When we reached the crossroad on the top of the hill, we found a church with a high bell tower and a rotten staircase inside. We spent there one night, and the following day it began to snow. He warned me not to rush up the stairs to the tower, but I didn't realize that. The second I reached the top, it all broke under my feet," said Jillian while Lizzie gently squeezed back of her head and examined the neck. "Garrett later said, when I finally woke up for more than one minute, that I fell and hit the ground pretty hard with a nail in my back and tore down the whole church. I owe him for my life."
&
nbsp; "You're lucky to have him," whispered Lizzie and examined her eyes with a flashlight.
"I wouldn't be sitting here right now. He carried me away before it had fallen apart. I met him about a week ago and there happened more than since the beginning. He saved me from wolves chasing me, a lightning storm, and a man willing to kill me," Zack's dead body popped into her mind. "He shared his food and took care of me in gardens where we hid. He even sewed that wound I've got here," she pointed at the injured lower back. "I don't even know why."
Lizzie switched the flashlight off and bent down to sitting Jillian. She stared straight into her eyes, keeping head at the same level. It was unpleasant, uncomfortable, and Jillian had to lower her eyes. She noticed that Lizzie's neck is black and blue under the scarf.
"Girl, you're full of trouble, aren't you?" said Lizzie hoarsely. "Stand up and unfasten your top. I need to check your back," Lizzie straightened up.
Jillian searched for zipper all over her clothes where the wound allowed her but found none.
"It's a compression clothing. It's supposed to keep you warm and alive," Lizzie grabbed the collar, pressed something, and thoroughly loosen the dress. It fell to her hips and revealed bruised ribs of dark violet alternating with yellow stripes between bones. Lizzie palpated her skinny ribs, and Jillian gasped in pain.
"How much does it hurt?" she checked grazed skin on Jillian's pelvis and vertebrae.
She felt as if Lizzie's fingers stabbed hundreds of needles to her back every time.
"Eight of ten," gasped Jillian. "But that bulge hurts like hell."
Lizzie pulled down her clothes a bit more to reveal dirty stitches of the swollen wound.
"This one?" Lizzie lightly touched it.
"Ouch," yelped Jillian.
"I don't like it. Sewing is done well and firm, but it's infected. It suppurates, and it appears that a foreign body remained deep in there. That would explain the fever," Lizzie walked to a glass cabinet. "I've got to scan you," she threw a light, paper-like hospital dress at Jillian. "Dress this one. You can't wear those clothes in DTI. It might tear the needles apart. I'm going to prepare the tube," she said and left the room.
What needles? flashed through Jillian's mind.
She relaxed of coming here, but these words instantly alarmed her.
What did she found? she changed the dress with great difficulty.
Uncertainty grew stronger. She imagined everything would be better after they let them enter Nest, and now there is something wrong again. People, her injury, and there will come something else for sure. She thought about the words she said about Garrett and everything he did for her. He really risked his life but never had a real reason to do so. Anyone would choose to get rid of the burden of an injured stranger, but he didn't. Nobody knows where she would be now if their paths didn't cross.
"Is everything fine, doctor?" heard Jillian when she opened the door.
Lizzie staggered as she was leaned against it while Whitkis stood nearby, talking to her. He looked taut and wiped the sweat from his face. A soldier behind him watched the scene with a straight face.
"I've told you already. It's all right," said Lizzie irritated. "We spoke about it, and there is nothing I can add to this. Jillian, come with me. See you later, doctor," she pushed Jillian down the corridor.
"Yes, yes," Whitkis nervously smiled and walked away, wiping his scruff.
"What was that?"
"Nothing," Lizzie said icily and opened the door.
"You people are not very keen after decorations," Jillian looked around the nearly empty room.
Little blue lights switching one after another ran from below her feet across the floor to the wall built-in hollow cylinder and computer on its side.
"Everything is designed with a sole purpose to maximize efficiency," Lizzie walked to the computer and switched the machine on.
It made no sound, no vibration, only a dozen pointy, finger-thick, four inches long needles emerged in the top half of the tube.
"What's that?"
"DTI - deep tissue imaging."
"I've meant the needles," Jillian said, but Lizzie sly smiled at her. "You're not gonna stab it in me, right?" Jillian stood wide-eyed because another amount of pain seemed unfair to her.
Lizzie smiled again and pointed with fingers, "Lie, face down. And don't move whatever happens."
"Can you do it like-"
"Do as I say," Lizzie stressed.
"Okay, just one question. What's behind the PARTS door?"
"If I had a nickel…" Lizzie sighed and adjusted scanning parameters. "PARTS stands for Posttraumatic and Recovery Treatments. It was a ward where doctors took care of seriously wounded soldiers and employees. Second and third-degree burns, fractures, shot wounds, internal organ damages and failures, and so on. I can assure you there are no hearts, limbs, nor eyes being stored, and I do not intend to cut you into pieces."
Jillian took a deep breath and painfully groaning lay down on the cold bench made of adjustable plastic, which Lizzie remotely positioned. She walked to her and undid Jillian's dress on the back.
"We'll see when it's done," she pushed the button on the bench.
Jillian wanted to hear different words. The deeper she got inside the tube, the faster her heart pounded. The light faded, and the humming noise of the moving bench stopped. She waited for searing pain coming from needles piercing her skin and flesh.
Come on. Stab it to me, she couldn't bear the tension.
A buzzing sounded near her head as some part began to rotate. The high pitched noise reached her ears, and she felt a light scratch on the bottom right floating rib. She heard Lizzie saying something, but couldn't distinguish the words.
What's taking her so long? thought Jillian after minutes, when needles moved almost over her whole body.
She didn't hear them, but she sensed movement from left to right on her sides. Her heart rate dropped down, and she didn't shiver anymore. The door opened. Lizzie talked to a man who pulled something heavy on the ground.
Who is it? she wanted to turn back to look, but she had no space for the head.
The high-pitched noise stopped, and needles hid with a buzzing.
It's over, she breathed with relief.
Then it came. Immense pain from fast needle sinking right next to the painful bulge almost knocked her out.
"Lizzie," cried out Jillian from the top of her lungs.
Then came another one right into the spine, and after that, the third one to her neck. Heat, spreading through her back to the tips of her fingers and toes, and subsiding pain quickly narcotized her. The world spun, and the bench moved outside. Her muscles ignored her will to move limbs and didn't react the slightest bit. Everything got blurred, and she couldn't distinguish Lizzie standing on her right. She felt slobber coming from the mouth and saw her figure reach into a metal box on wheels. Lizzie did something with her back. It all happened slower than the growth of a tree. Jillian barely registered the world when she heard a clink on a metal tray. Lizzie leaned above her again and worked quickly with her fingers.
It must be over already, wished Jillian, but she didn't care anymore.
It was too strong to fight it. She felt being moved back in the darkness of the tube. Lights and circles flashed in front of her eyes, and sounds faded away. The needle stabbed her again.
Chapter 12 The Lie
When the artificial voice spoke to Garrett to wake him up, it startled him so much that he almost fell off the bed as he groped after the knife in the absolute dark.
"Okay, shut up already. I told you not to wake me up," he rubbed his dry, irritated eyes, striving to realize that this is not a dream.
The computer fell silent and began playing soft ambient music while the light gently turned on. Garrett remained to lie in bed and thoughtlessly stared at the ceiling three feet above him. He felt a strange emptiness growing inside him. Everything he did as his daily routine became unnecessary. No fire to start, no cans to open, no plans t
o make. There left nothing to fear of and nothing to care about. Jillian is in somebody's caring hands, they are inside the impenetrable military facility, and enemies are nowhere around. He didn't want to climb out of that place ever because it would immediately disrupt this pleasant though temporary status quo.
"Doctor Dawn, my apologies for disturbing you again. It's been currently twenty-four hours since you entered this bunk," said gentle male computer voice. "I've just executed one of my daily routines, and per today's schedule of Doctor Rosefield, you have a meeting in oncoming minutes. She marked your presence as required and attached following audio recording, 'Garrett, we'll meet in the canteen. It will be more pleasant to discuss over a meal than with a grumbling stomach. Don't hesitate to give yourself anything you see.' Do you want to decline this meeting?"
"All right, I'm going," he silenced the computer.
He couldn't stay in there forever. Sarah herself or somebody else would undoubtedly come to pick him up if he won't go. He put on a black jumpsuit with a white Diamond logo on the left breast pocket and pulled up the silver zipper running up to his neck. By touch, he felt it was comfortable but durable and precisely adjusted to his size. He almost left when he noticed a hand-sized device resembling a mobile phone fallen on the ground. He picked it up and turned on. The loading screen displayed the company's logo. Shortly after, he received a red warning sign requiring him to connect the Personal Combat Assistant to the wrist section of his suit, but he saw neither connector nor any mark where to plug it. He listened to its request and moved the PCA, although he didn't know what to do. The integrated magnet pulled it to his wrist and sleeve hardened to provide adequate support. The screen flashed green and showed him the status of his body. Everything looked all right, but his mild dehydration and underweight. It also marked his arms as injured. He walked out of the room and called the elevator to take him to the canteen.
When the lovely woman's voice announced the floor and opened the door, pleasant smells coming from variable dishes played a symphony for his nose. It was probably the only place in the entire facility without contrasting combinations of white color. Black glossy floor and wooden mosaic ceiling helped this place to look more like a restaurant. The walls carried giant screens with non-intrusive company propagation videos and mottos. They covered more than half of the walls' size and played time-lapse scenes of Eagle Nebula, night downtowns, and blooming colorful flowers. When Garrett saw a young family of three standing in the knee-high grass under an oak tree at sunset, and read 'Your life is in our hands. Diamond Corp.' he didn't feel he wants to agree with that statement at all. Several people at long plastic tables sat on sky-blue, grass-green, and white canteen chairs. Display counters full of cakes and desserts, submarine sandwiches, ice creams with waffle cones and bowls, fruits and hot chocolate for dipping waited just for him, same as four soups to choose from: sweet pea soup with avocado, roasted almonds, and parmesan cheese; cauliflower cream with Norwegian wild salmon roe; clam chowder with crispy bacon; and creamy rice soup.
