by Maguire, Ily
“Where are you taking me?” The nurse doesn’t have to push anything. She doesn’t say anything either. She walks ahead while I’m forced to follow in the chair.
The corridor is long and symmetrical. The doors are all closed. Streaks of light break into the hallway, breaking the monotony.
I blink my eyes, pressing them shut for a few seconds.
Cold. Doors closed. Ripped plastic cushions and rusty metal doors. Mold and mildew creeping up the grey walls and across the ceiling. Lights flicker. Crumbling walls and wood-paneled baseboards. Rusted nail heads, exposed.
I blink the hallucination away in time to see a dirty and ragged doll lying on the floor. The nurse kicks it out of the way. Another isolated trip down the hall. I don’t hear anything. Not even the nurse’s footsteps as she treads across the linoleum floor. A door at the end of the hall gets closer, though we’re moving so slow. Slow motion.
We get to the end of the corridor and the nurse swipes a card and types in a code to a wall panel by a large metal gate. It looks like another fence. Like the one enclosing the stairwell. The gate opens and slams closed behind me.
She takes a right and we’re in a wide-open space with an oval desk in the middle. The desk is surrounded and encapsulated by glass. Two other nurses sit behind the desk. Dressed in white. All the same. They don’t look up as I float behind, passing into another hallway and through another large room with lots of windows. A breezeway. We travel around in an arc. The room is flooded with brightness. My eyes close. Too much sunlight. We’re going in a circle and I’m dizzy.
I open my eyes.
White walls. Bright lights in a line overhead. I can hear the faint buzzing of the fluorescent lights. Side to side I shift my eyes. Shiny metal chairs outside each room. Lots of sunlight. Warm.
The nurse stops in front of a door. My chair stops a few feet behind her. The door we are in front of is much like all the rest we’ve just passed, but this one is painted black.
The nurse puts her palm up against it. Then pulls it away.
“Come in, please,” a pleasant sounding woman says from the other side of the door.
It opens. The nurse hasn’t touched anything again. She steps out of the way and I pass through a double-walled doorframe and glide in on my chair.
The woman from the morgue stands in front of me. The doctor.
“Have a nice day,” she says and the nurse leaves the room.
Don’t leave me! I want to scream, but don’t get the chance before the door closes behind me.
“Rosamund Campbell.”
I don’t say anything. My skin tingles. My hands are clammy. I’m getting feeling back in my legs, but not nearly enough for me to move. Not enough for me to be able to run away.
Something about this room doesn’t feel right. It’s too warm. There are too many windows. It’s bright, though there’s no sun. It’s gray outside. The room is shaped almost octagonally. There is a dark mahogany table and chairs with lion claws on their feet off to the left. An Oriental rug goes right up to the fireplace, which is behind the desk. Red and gold are vivid in the pattern.
Branches in the room. Broken glass. Roots crawl down the fireplace and grow up through the thinning edges of the rug.
Goosebumps go up and down my arms.
“You are safe here,” the doctor tells me. She walks from the fireplace to the windows and looks out. Drapes are pulled to the sides and tied with sashes of the same muted color. The woman isn’t tall, but the black high heels add to her stature. She wears a black skirt and matching black jacket. A thin, red scarf is wrapped around her neck.
“Safe from what?” I ask, my voice cracks.
“Based on what we know about you and your family history—” she begins and moves behind the desk. She sits.
“My family?”
“I’d say we got you in time.” She looks down at the file on her desk. She is average looking despite being visibly old. Her hair is cropped in a chin-length, dirty-blonde bob and wrinkles split her skin. She hasn’t been AR’d.
“In time for what?”
“Forgive me, let me start by introducing myself. I am Doctor Flint,” she looks up, but doesn’t get up. She smiles. Her teeth are long. Sharp. “Any more time with those fools in Aegis and you’d have been AR’d to death.”
“They wouldn’t do that. They weren’t going to do that,” I lie. I’ve gone from one medical prison to another and now just await my sentence.
“What did you think, that they were your friends? James and Patience Jameson. They weren’t there to help you.”
“How do you know–”
“They were friends of The Hollow. Very greedy ones.”
She doesn’t elaborate.
“They were against ARs. They wouldn’t do that to me, even if they weren’t my friends.”
“Rose Campbell, I thought you were smarter than that. Weren’t you taught anything?”
I have nothing to say.
“You would’ve been sold to the highest bidder had you remained,” Dr. Flint continues. “It’s a good thing we were looking out for you. Watching out for you.”
“You shot me! Why?”
“One of my attendants did. It was just protocol.”
“It was protocol to shoot me?”
“It was protocol to aim for non-essential organs. You were never in any real danger. You’re already healed.”
“Do you want me to thank you?” Anger swells from the pit of my stomach. This Dr. Flint makes it sound like I should be grateful I wasn’t wounded more. I’m not sure thanks are in order.
“No, Dear. You don’t have to thank anyone.” Her smile is thin. Her jaw is set and she grinds her molars. They make a low popping sound. I can see them through her skin.
“What are you going to do with me?”
“That’s why I had you brought here. Our facility–”
“You mean The Hollow,” I interrupt. Dr. Flint doesn’t look pleased.
“I don’t know to what you’re referring, Dear. Whatever name you’ve come across is neither approved nor acknowledged.” She smoothes down her skirt as she stands and moves around the desk toward me. “Rejuvenation Industries.”
“What are you planning on doing to me?”
Dr. Flint doesn’t respond and it frightens me. She’s hiding a lot.
“What are you going to do? What do you need me for?”
She smiles. Still doesn’t answer.
“Answer me!” I am able to lift my arm and it jerks up before slamming back down on my lap.
Dr. Flint’s face reddens.
“Please,” I plead now. “Are you going to do the same thing to me as the others? Will I get a letter and a number, too?”
Dr. Flint slams her tablet down on the desk. She walks over to me.
“You understand I could have had you killed.” Dr. Flint squeezes my face between her cold fingers. Her breath is acidic. It smells strong and stale. My eyes tear as her fingernails pierce my cheeks and blood trickles down, dripping onto my gown. It doesn’t stop her and we both know it doesn’t matter. It will heal.
“What are you going to do to me?” I ask, my voice trembles as air pushes through my lips, my face still held in her hand.
She let’s go and walks back to her desk. She smoothes her skirt down again and sits.
“Harvest cells. Mitochondria, cytoplasm, nuclei, and transition to organ implant,” she reads from something on her desk.
“That’s what you’ll do to me? What about my own organs?”
Without hesitation, this time Dr. Flint answers, “we will remove them and regrow parts of them for implantation. For the advancement of science, of course.”
I think I may be sick.
“And when we replace them,” she continues. “We will see whether you are capable of rejecting or accepting the new organ.”
The room is contracting. It’s so stuffy in here I almost can’t breathe.
The phone on her desk lights up and she answers it.
“When will you start?” I ask, knowing she isn’t paying attention to me. I’m dizzy.
“At once,” she says, but I don’t know if it is directed at me or the phone.
“I’m sorry, what?” I try to gain enough control of my twitching arms to be able to move my legs, but I’m completely helpless. Vulnerable and scared and outraged.
“We can start today.” She states, putting the phone down on her desk.
“What will you do?”
“Whatever I want,” she counters.
“Wait. No. You can’t.” I’ve got to keep her talking. I’ve got to stall her. If I have just a little more time I’ll be able to move my legs.
“Oh I can. And I will.”
I’ve made a mistake baiting her.
“We will start slow. A few biopsies and cultures. We will monitor your brain for wave action and reaction. General potential.”
“My brain? Will you remove my brain as well?” It’s like my talk with JJ, but this feels so much more wrong. So much more out of my control.
I wiggle my toes.
“Eventually,” she reaches back into her desk or under her desk and puts something into her pocket. I don’t see what.
“Why?”
“As your brain has the same genetic code as the rest of your organs, it will have to come out to be studied.”
“Why?” I persist. My lower legs cramp and I think, given a few more minutes, I may be able to move them.
“Above all else, Rejuvenation Industries values significant scientific advancement.”
“Would you keep me alive?”
Dr. Flint gets up again and moves back around the desk.
“We wouldn’t have to—”
“But—”
“But if we could sustain your brain without you—”
“Without keeping me alive. If you could do that, you wouldn’t need me at all.”
“We wouldn’t have to kill you, Miss Campbell. We could replace your brain and you could assimilate a new one.”
“So you’d just AR my brain then.” A tingle travels up my thighs. If I can move out of this chair and to the door, how far could I get?
“We’d download all of your current thoughts and all of the memories you have stored in your brain onto a microchip. We’d then wipe your brain clean and remove it, replacing it with quite a bit of matter and the chip. Your entire code would be exactly the same.” She stares out the window.
“I don’t want to do this!” I am able to hold one arm with the other. The one I’m holding twitches almost uncontrollably.
“You don’t have a choice. You are the property of Rejuvenation Industries.”
“I am not. No one owns me and no one ever will. You may have captured me, but no one will ever–”
Dr. Flint darts from the window to my chair. She grabs my arm and pulls it out straight. It hurts as she turns my arm outward. She points at a dark black tattoo on my inner, upper arm.
“Do not be mistaken, Miss Campbell.” Spit from her lips spatters my face. “I will do whatever I want to you, whenever I want to do it.”
I am stunned speechless.
“I do own you, Miss Campbell.”
She reaches into her lab coat pocket and pulls out a syringe.
“You don’t need to do that,” I try to lean away from her.
“Of course I do, Miss Campbell. I need to make sure you understand who is in charge here.” She is less than delicate as she jerks up my gown. I swing my arms around without any direction. My legs are still too heavy to move. I hit her across the head and on the side of her face. My arms won’t stop swinging. Dr. Flint ducks her head, her fingers press into my leg as she stabs me in the thigh. I try to push her off, but despite my protests, she injects the syringe.
The only thing going through my mind before passing out is something Tithonus said the first time I met him:
“Chipchip. Don’t let them chip your code.”
8
“Roz? Roz, you in here?” Leland whispers from the floor.
“I am,” I mutter. My voice sounds muffled in my own head. My eyes squint open.
“Oh, Roz, oh no. What have you done? What have they done?” Leland is now beside me. How did he get here so fast? The question takes more than a few seconds to formulate.
He pushes up on my back, trying to get me to sit up straight, but my body won’t budge. I’m back where I started. He doesn’t say any more, but I hear his breathing intensify as he struggles to get me upright. I wish I could help, but I’m still numb. I can’t feel much of anything other than the pressure on my back, and that only a little. Whatever it is has made its way to my brain.
My brain.
“Roz, did they offer you a cocktail?”
I don’t know, I say in my head. I shrug.
“They would’ve offered you a cocktail. Did you meet with Dr. Flint?”
I bob my head. Once. Twice. My neck struggles to hold it up. Why didn’t you tell me about Dr. Flint, Leland? I want to ask, but my lips won’t move. And why do you keep talking about them offering it, like I had a choice not to take it? They’re fat and numb.
“Did you take the cocktail, Roz?” He waves his hand in front of my eyes. I try to focus, but I can’t. I’m unfeeling. I’m fading.
“Oh, no. This isn’t good, Roz. Roz, stay with me, Roz –”
Leland disappears from my sight and when he comes back into focus it isn’t him.
Pike!
Pike steps out of the corner of the room. The hospital room. My hospital room.
He steps close, but it isn’t him.
Dr. Flint moves up beside me. Thin lips bare her sharp, yellow teeth. She smiles and speaks, though her mouth doesn’t move.
“Chipchip. We’ll chipchip your code.”
My head moves from side to side. Or is it just my eyes? My vision? I want to cover my ears, but I can’t. She’s chip-chipping away in my head.
And then it’s gone. I’m able to open my eyes.
Tithonus is seated beside my bed. He holds my hand.
“Will she be okay? How bad was the cocktail they gave her?”
“Not lethal. She will be okay. It will wear off soon.” His hands massage mine and I am surprised at his strength and my ability to feel again. “Beware it doesn’t wear her out. Warn her. Avoid the cocktail.”
“I did,” Leland responds. “She wasn’t given the choice, though.”
I wasn’t given the choice.
“Let me help you out,” Leland takes Tithonus’s hands from mine. Instead of walking him toward the hole in the floor, he goes straight to the door.
Leland hits it twice, with the palm of his hand. It makes more of a shushing sound than a hollow knock.
The door opens and my eyes shift away from the light.
“He’s ready,” Leland says to someone in the hallway. “You won’t get in trouble, will you?”
“No, but thank you for making it quick. I need to get him back to his room before I go,” the voice of a woman speaks and it sounds like family. It brings back memories of books and stories.
“Will she be okay?” Leland asks her and I can tell he takes something by the way his arm extends and retracts.
“She’ll survive, Leland,” she says.
The conservatory.
“Let’s go Jenny,” Tithonus beckons.
Jenny? Jenny! I repeat over and over in my head.
The door closes and I try to open my mouth again to speak. Nothing comes out but breath. I try to move my arm, but all I can do is shift my eyes. Nothing is there. Leland walks back over to my bed.
“Shh….get some rest. We have to run that cocktail out of your system as quick as we can.” Leland puts something on the side table, but I can’t tell what it is. I don’t want to look down in case I can’t get my head back up. It still feels so heavy.
“Christophe, you still there?” Leland asks.
A shadow moves across the floor and to my bed. When it appears, I see a head
with short, cropped hair and a face with sharp, angular features. A tall, slim, muscular guy wearing sunglasses faces me, grins, and starts to loosen my sheets.
I don’t care.
He untwists a drip line from a port on the back of my hand. Instead of detaching me completely, he reattaches something else. Something that courses through my veins and flows all around my body. Like the fizz of a soda, I can feel it bubble throughout my blood vessels, reacting with whatever else is there. I close my eyes. My head has gone from heavy to light in a matter of seconds.
“It should work pretty quick, it’s distilled water,” Christophe says. It can’t just be water.
“Oh water, Christophe, you are always so clever. Replace the cocktail with water. Hydrate the girl. I would’ve never thought it could be so simple.”
What is Leland talking about?
Christophe’s eyes are hidden behind sunglasses.
“Let’s go. She should get some rest,” Christophe moves away from the bedside. Leland comes forward.
NO! I yell inside my head. I don’t like it here alone. The room darkens and shadows play tricks on me. I don’t want anyone creeping out of the corners.
“I’ll be back, Roz. You’re gonna be fine.” Leland kisses my forehead. As they descend into the tunnel I hear Christophe tell Leland one last thing.
“We should send Delia up to keep an eye on her.”
“You’re right. When she comes to, she’ll probably be in pain and Delia will know what to do,” Leland answers.
The tile slips back into place and I wait for Delia, hoping the pain doesn’t come before she does.
9
“You’re waking up,” someone says. I open my eyes and a woman I have never seen sits on the chair beside my bed. Her slim figure is draped in a white, gauzelike dress. Her crossed legs are pale and delicate. She is framed by light. She is angelic. Is she an angel?
“Am I dreaming? Am I dead? Are you dead?”
“No. You are just waking up. Relax, Rosamund.” Her voice is as soft as her face. Long, wispy, strawberry-blonde hair parts to the side. It hangs over one shoulder and behind the other. Her green eyes are the color of emeralds and the lashes are long and black. Her lips are peachy-pink and there is a sparkle to her skin. She is flawless. Beautiful.
