Chapter 20—Shoot Me
An hour later, Mark and Rooke arrived at Rooke Pharmaceuticals. Mark thought the building was relatively empty compared to the day of his field trip. Some late employees were running in, but Rooke paid them no mind. One man, lab coat over his shoulder, handed Rooke a file. “Here are the results for Markus Bell.”
“Excellent,” Rooke said, opening the file and perusing it.
It wasn’t Mark’s first day there. Not technically. Rooke had brought the boy in a couple of days ago to run various tests: X-rays, physical assessment, and other tests to verify Mark’s full power. Retrieving any sort of blood sample had proved fruitless. Every needle broke against Mark’s skin. He was eager to see the results from his tests.
Rooke led Mark inside and to the central elevator. “Looks like your muscles and bones are unbreakable as well. They’re sturdy and can bear great damage. So far, it looks like any damage whatsoever,” he said, flipping through the pages. “Even your nerves are resilient. Seems to be that any pain for us is dust in the wind before you. As I expected.” Mark marveled over that fact. So he could resist anything. However, the burn on his knee was still painful, which reminded him that he wasn’t completely indestructible. They headed for the top floor.
It was the first time Rooke had talked since the replacement nurse had come. He had given explicit instructions to call if anything happened, and then he’d whisked Mark away. His cheery mood had been left behind in Leonard’s room.
Mark had tried to write off Rooke’s sudden mood swing as fear. Leonard had said that Rooke was obsessed about caring for his father. That was understandable. If Mark and Gene didn’t get along, there had to be other fathers who were above average with their children. Maybe that was what happened to the uneven distribution between Leonard and his father, Mark joked wryly to himself.
Yet Rooke’s behavior was too unnerving to claim it was something as simple as fear. Mood swings like that were uncommon—unnatural even. The scene between Rooke and the nurse had cast the man in a different light. But since Mark found himself in the heart of Rooke’s business, he thought it best not to express that concern. Instead, he resolved to be wary of his employer’s darker side.
The elevator dinged softly and the pair stepped out onto the top floor. It was significantly different from the rest of the building. Smooth, short-pile, red-velvet carpet lined the hallway. A secretary sat behind a desk nearby. Rooke told her he was not to be disturbed. “You have visitors already in there,” she told him as he walked through the double doors at the end of the hall.
Through the doors was an inner waiting room. A green-and-gold-speckled rug led straight through another set of wooden doors at the end of the room. It reminded Mark of a pathway leading to a throne.
However, the rug ended at a single chair of brown leather, not gold and cushions. It rested behind a clean, well-organized desk. Waiting for them were Heather and Finster, both dressed formally and occupying one of the sofas in the large office. Mark felt out of place in his casual clothes.
Heather wore large dark sunglasses that covered much of her face. She’d yanked her scarf over her neck and snatched up a blond wig from the couch when the doors opened. As she was adjusting the wig, she saw who had entered. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. She threw off the wig. “Good. That stupid thing is itchy.” She scratched her head.
“Out, you two,” Rooke said. “I need to speak to him alone. I’ll call you when we’re ready, Finster.”
At first, Mark thought Rooke was referring to him. Once Heather and Finster left, Rooke flipped on a television hanging on the office wall and dialed a number on a keypad next to it. It displayed “No connection” for several moments before a man’s face appeared. Or rather his nose pressed up against the screen so that one could pick out the individual nostril hairs among the balls of snot.
“Yeah? Whatcha want?” the man asked. He pulled back from the screen, and looked down at Rooke. “Oh, it’s you. Hang on.”
The screen darkened, and they waited for a few seconds before another man showed up. His face was shrouded in darkness, his features merely hinted at by an off-camera light source. Mark saw a small patch of graying whiskers on his chin. He clasped his hands together and pointed at Mark. “Who is this?” he asked. Mark estimated the man to be older than Rooke. That was all he could think about. As soon as the man spoke, Mark’s spine shivered uncontrollably. The man’s tone was slow, deep, and methodical. There was a hint of underlying annoyance in his question, which made Mark want to fall to his knees and profusely apologize for any offense.
“This is Mark, Mr. Whyte. Markus Bell,” Rooke said, bringing the boy forward. Mark scuffled along the carpet, trying to slide away from the screen.
“Where is Finster?” Again, Mark had the urge to prostrate himself before Whyte.
“He’s outside. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”
“I know.” Whyte crossed his arms on the desk.
“Then why haven’t you answered my calls?” Rooke asked, raising his voice. “I tried to get you to move that shipment, but you never returned my calls! Now look where it’s landed us!” He pushed Mark behind him and stepped closer to the screen. “I had to cover up your mistake quickly. This whole ordeal is going to have the BEP Division breathing down my neck! I already had to deal with one of their agents. I told you that you need to send your shipments elsewhere!”
“I have to do nothing!” Whyte said, pounding the table. Rooke recoiled and shuffled back to Mark, placing the boy between himself and the screen. Mark tried to worm out of being Rooke’s shield. His own knees clacked together and his hands were clammy.
“This was your mistake,” Whyte continued, lowering his voice. Mark felt even more frightened at the man’s tone. “This was your foul-up. It has landed you in your present predicament. If you had tighter security, this wouldn’t have happened. Or you could’ve built another warehouse. I’m not here to baby you. You’re an adult and should be able to handle these problems. What do you think I gave you all those resources for? To play with? My funding should be more than adequate. Yet somehow, you use every last penny and avoid me anytime I question you about it.” Rooke’s lips tightened.
“And now, you bring one of the little brats here?” The man’s finger filled the entire screen. It was so large and close, Mark worried it might burst out and smash him. “Oh, yes. I received your call and report about the situation. I was upset before, but now I’m furious. How stupid are you? If you’re going to question and heap blame on me, then I get to ask exactly where all my money is going.”
“It’s being well spent,” Rooke said lamely. His eyes were glued to the floor.
“You have little to show for it. I would’ve expected you to beef up security. Maybe I should pull my funding and invest it elsewhere. I might even see progress from someone else.”
“Wait! There is a reason why I brought Mark here,” Rooke said, pleading and pushing Mark closer. “He could be a valuable asset!”
Whyte paused and pointed at Mark. “Rooke tells me you can withstand anything. Is this true?”
Mark’s burned knee leapt to his mind. His tongue grew fat and swollen, preventing him from answering. “Yes, he can,” Rooke said, interceding for him. He held up the file of Mark’s results. “I’ve seen it myself. Got the proof right here. Watch.” He picked up a pen from his desk and jammed it into Mark’s cheek. He stabbed repeatedly, choosing new spots and never breaking the skin.
Whyte watched quietly. Rooke upped the demonstration by punching Mark. No marks appeared and he was in no pain. Whyte asked, “What about a gun?”
A gun? “A gun?” Rooke repeated.
“Yes. Can he survive a bullet?”
Rooke looked at Mark, but the boy had no answer to that question. He’d never tried shooting himself. For all he knew, it might work, but it might not. Surely Rooke wouldn’t use one and put his life in danger. It was something they would test carefully first, right?
Yet Rooke didn’t argue with Whyte. He rummaged through one of his desk drawers and pulled out a glistening black pistol. It glimmered like new and to Mark looked unused. Rooke checked the clip, cocked the gun, and held out Mark’s arm. For the longest while, he went back and forth between spots to shoot before settling on aiming for the wrist.
“Don’t worry,” he said, trying to assuage Mark’s jitters. “I’ve practiced shooting before.” Somehow, Mark knew that the end of that sentence should’ve been “a few times at a shooting range.” The worry on Rooke’s face was crystal clear. Stabs, punches, and Finster’s throw had been dangerous, but manageable. If he hadn’t been able to resist them, Mark could’ve recovered from a pen jammed into his arm or having a smashed face.
A gun, on the other hand, was different. This wasn’t something one could recover from as easily. A bullet could be lethal. Anything could go wrong. Rooke could miss. The gun could misfire. The bullet might graze him, bounce around the room, and lodge itself into an eye. Mark wondered if his eye was as resilient as his skin. As the various scenarios played in his mind, he found that there was a great chance he could wind up on a morgue slab instead of on a gurney if he couldn’t withstand a bullet.
“Everything will be fine. Relax,” Rooke said soothingly. He ducked away, as if anticipating that the bullet would bounce off Mark and hit him.
Fire had already proved it could hurt Mark. Guns could burn, if close, right? Rooke was standing a few feet away. Was he far enough?
How did anyone know Mark could withstand a bullet? No, he couldn’t do this. This wasn’t worth being shot. Something was going to go wrong. He could die! He couldn’t do this. He had to run. He had to r—
Bang! Crack!
Mark squeezed his eyes shut, not daring to see the damage. The shot rang in his ears. A high-pitched tinny sound that dulled his hearing. When it subsided, nobody spoke for several seconds. There was no pain. What if it burned away my nerves? He was afraid of finding a blood-soaked hole drilled through his skin.
“Interesting,” Whyte said.
Interesting? What could be so interesting? Had the bullet ricocheted? Was it lodged in his arm? Nobody was telling Mark anything. Finally, swallowing his fear, he chanced a glimpse at his arm. There was nothing. No mark, no hole, no sign of being shot. Not even a bullet-sized indentation. Someone pounded on the door, but Rooke told the person that everything was fine. High on one wall, Mark saw a nick in the wooden panel. It hadn’t been there before. He looked closely at it and saw the bullet lodged into a crevice. The splinters around the opening were bent and twisted, holding on by a thread.
Rooke held up the gun, relief washing over his face. His hand shook, and the gun rattled when he set it on the table. “What about airborne toxins?” Whyte asked.
“I don’t think so,” Rooke said, examining Mark. The boy gulped. Would they try that next? He felt sick to his stomach. “He has to breathe like anyone else, after all. My guess is that he can’t resist them.” At this statement, Mark’s tension ebbed away, as he dodged another bullet, so to speak. “However, he is resistant to many other things.”
“So, you have yourself an unbreakable wall,” Whyte said.
“Ah, and you could, too,” Rooke said. “I could recreate his power.”
“I’m listening.”
“This isn’t the same situation we’ve had before with the others BEPs. All the ingredients from Mark’s accident are right here. I simply need to find the right combination and bam!” Rooke clapped his hands. “You could have yourself people with this same ability!”
“You can deliver on this?” Whyte asked.
He nodded. “You have my word. I only need some time and further funding,” said Rooke, quickly adding, “to get more of the ingredients for experimenting, of course.”
Whyte stroked his whiskers, pondering the offer. “Very well. You’ll have your funding. I want it done soon. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Rooke said.
“Good. Now bring in Finster.”
Mark was shown into the waiting room. He heard the doors lock behind him after Finster entered the office. Seeing nothing else to do, he took a seat in a nearby chair next to Heather. She was resting, her head against the wall, sunglasses askew on her eyes, and her wig snugly pulled over her hair. He tried to catch some shut-eye too, but ended up reflecting on what had happened in the office. He’d faced death. Mark leaned over, preparing to vomit.
“If you’re going to throw up, go to the bathroom,” Heather mumbled.
Mark held his stomach. When the acid in his throat died down, he sat back. Shock and his nausea were receding, leaving a void filled by anger. His life and well-being had been put on the line again without his input. Would he have to experiment with every harmful substance on himself first, lest Rooke do it to him, potentially causing him grievous harm? He frowned, gripping the arms of his chair.
“What’s your problem?” Heather asked, one eye open and staring at him.
“I was shot.”
“We heard. I thought our meal ticket had died,” she said, sitting up straighter.
“No, he shot me. On my arm.” He pointed to the area.
Heather looked at his arm. She lifted her glasses, squinted, and shook her head. “You’re fine. No harm done.”
“But he shot me!” Mark pointed to his arm once more. “He shot my arm!”
“I heard you the first time. Are you hurt? Is the bullet inside you? No? You’re fine.” She hooked her glasses on her shirt. Then she settled back into her chair, her head lolling to the side.
He held his arm protectively to his chest, examining it. There was no trace of any bullet hitting it, but he was worried nonetheless. What if there was internal damage? What if the shot was a fluke? The spur of the moment demonstration was different from his own slow, methodical trials of forks and knives.
“What’s the BEP Division?” Mark asked.
“The government division assigned to us,” Heather said. She lifted a finger and pointed in the air as she spelled, “Biologically Enhanced Person. BEP. People like you and me. The BEP Division is in charge of bringing us to their hidden facility and ‘educating’ us on the proper use of our powers. Then the BEPs are sent to live where the government deems is appropriate, and they’re watched for the rest of their lives.”
“Was Kirk with them?”
“Yeah,” Heather said, stretching. “He was a BEP agent. They’re the ‘little hounds of the division. Sent out to track down what they call the rogue BEPs. In other words, people who choose to live a life devoid of the division’s interference. Best to keep away from them.”
Through the open doors to the hall and past the secretary, Mark saw several doors. One of them was cracked open. A bed was visible, already made up. “What’s that for?” Mark asked.
Heather glared at him and then followed his gaze. “A bed,” she said. “We use it if we have to work late, rest up if we go out—stuff like that.”
He stood. “I think I’m going to lie down.” He rubbed his arm, checking to see if standing had produced any side effects.
“Do whatever you want. Just leave me alone. I’d like to get at least five minutes before Finster comes out,” she said, waving him off. “But you’re freaking out too much. You’re fine. Trust me.”
Trust? Rooke had gone on about trust when Mark had first met him. He scoffed. “Trust. Right,” he mumbled. “Can’t trust Rooke.”
“As well you shouldn’t,” Heather said, flopping her head to the other side. She cracked open her eyes. “Don’t trust anyone. Here’s some other free advice: don’t get close to anyone either. You’re basically going to have to give yourself up to this job. This,” she grabbed his arm, “is nothing compared to what you’ll have to do. If you want to survive here, you’re going to have to be prepared to do anything. So you may as well give up all else. You never know when you might be forced to choose between this job and something you hold dear. It’ll make things faster if y
ou cut emotional ties to everything else in your life. Not easier or simpler, but faster.”
She turned away and closed her eyes. As Mark started to chew on her words, she added, “You’ll lose yourself in this job. All of yourself. You’ll never see it until that one day. The day you wake up,” she snapped her fingers, “and realize you’ve been consumed.”
Halfway Heroes Page 30
