“No...”
He sighs and adjusts his grip on the wheel. “You can explain yourself anytime now.”
“Why didn’t you let them take the car? Why did you provoke him?” I blurt out, turning in my seat to face him.
“Is that what’s bothering you?”
“He was going to shoot you!”
“Maybe.”
“Do you have a death wish or something?” I try to ask in a casual tone, but by the end of the question my voice trembles. “Because if you do, you need to tell me, okay? So I won’t bother saving you next time.”
Jacob cracks a small smile. “He kept talking, moving around the issue. Some men talk because they like to hear the sound of their own voices. This guy wanted to justify his actions. Wanted me to justify his actions. So I knew he wouldn’t shoot me. Just like you knew he wouldn’t shoot you.”
“That’s different. I didn’t really think. I just did it.”
“Your instincts are faster than your mind.”
“But you didn’t need to provoke him into shooting you.”
“I was surrounded, alone, and without weapons. I had nothing to lose. Pointing a gun at someone is easy. Killing someone? Face to face like that? That’s a whole other business. The time between raising a gun and pulling a trigger might as well be an eternity for some people. They hesitate. And if they hesitate? You know their threats are empty. After that, the dynamic of the encounter changes. They no longer have the advantage.”
He always has a good explanation for everything, but this time it doesn’t sound sincere. It makes sense, of course, and Jacob acts like someone who would know those guys better than they knew themselves. The problem is his voice. His tone. He didn’t care. He was ready to die for a stupid car. It wasn’t a tactical decision, it was emotional.
“You didn’t want to lose the car because if you did, we wouldn’t be able to follow your daughter’s trail.”
He grips the wheel a little too tightly. The long pause is filled with my heartbeat and nothing else.
“It’s over now. Just go to sleep.”
What I really want to ask him, I can’t, because I know the answer: would he risk shooting the guy holding me if it had been his daughter in my place?
Sure, he called me Lily, but what difference does it make? I’m the replacement, I knew that already. And, yeah, I called him Dad, but he knows I was faking it. My real parents died and I don’t need new ones.
But it would be nice. It would be nice to have one. To have someone I know I can trust. Who won’t let me down. Who won’t die so easily. Who cares about me.
So I’m staying even if I know the answer.
Because I don’t have anyone else.
THE DOCTOR XIV
January 24th, Sunday, 8 pm
I meet Tigh in his bedroom after another round of patrolling. Of course his bed’s made, his shoes polished, and the uniform he’s going to wear tomorrow already folded and ready. My bedroom, on the other hand, is ground zero of a clothing hurricane.
As usual, I make my brief visual examination of his condition. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are still red, but apart from that he seems to be in one piece. Tired, but safe.
I sit on the bed. “Any news?”
He shakes his head and lets himself fall onto the chair next to the bed. Tigh’s reaction to Lily’s disappearance has been one of quiet frustration. Each time he comes back from patrols without her, I see the desire to do more grow in him. It’s been almost two full days and so far Lily’s whereabouts are still a mystery. The person she was escorting stopped answering his radio and things are looking grim.
“Irons won’t allow us to expand our patrol perimeter.” He sighs while taking off his boots. “Says the weather’s too dangerous. This blizzard might go on for days.”
I place a hand on his arm. This won’t go over well with Roger. “What do you think? Is there a chance she’s still alive?”
Tigh rubs between his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe. If she found shelter, but each day that passes...”
“Her supplies dwindle.”
He nods. A heavy silence hangs between us. I barely knew Lily, but she was so young and radiated so much confidence. It’s hard to believe someone like that is gone.
“One day she was here, the next she disappeared. I don’t understand why she didn’t tell us,” I finally say. “She didn’t even tell Roger. He didn’t have a chance to say goodbye.”
Tigh says nothing. He’s out there, every day. A sinking feeling reaches the bottom of my stomach.
“Tigh, I—”
Whatever I was about to say is interrupted by Roger’s raised voice, echoing in the dormitory’s hallway. “She’s out there. She’s still alive. Let me search for her. Let me go, Irons. I’ll find her on my own if your people won’t.”
We leave the bedroom to find Irons and Roger arguing in the hallway. The Captain stares at Roger with her hands behind her back. Her expression is neutral, cold even. Their arguments about Lily have, sadly, become routine.
“Our numbers are already too few. I can’t risk losing anyone else. Especially in this weather. I’m sorry to say this, but the truth is they probably died out there. Otherwise they would’ve come back by now. I lost one of my men too. I understand your pain, but you need to accept reality, Gilmore. Lily is gone.”
With that, the conversation’s over. Irons passes by us, giving a curt nod in our direction before exiting the area of the dormitory. Roger stares right through us, gaze fixed on the door Irons just used. Tigh touches the other man’s shoulder for a brief moment before moving on.
I, on the other hand, gently push the sheriff inside his bedroom. “Come on, you need to rest.”
Roger shakes his head, then falters, sitting down on the edge of the bed, hiding his face with his hands.
I take a step forward, reaching for him. “I’m sorry, Roger. Lily was—”
“She is.” He looks up at me, jaw set. “She’s alive, Maria. She is. You don’t know her like I do. Lily’s fighting to stay alive out there.”
I take a bottle of sleeping pills from my pocket and offer them to him. “Take two of these. They’ll help you sleep.”
Roger ignores me completely, rambling on as if I’m not present. “God, what’ll Jacob say when he hears? He’s probably almost here. I didn’t even tell Lily I asked him to follow us; he didn’t want me to. But maybe if I had... Maybe if I had, she would’ve waited for him. I shouldn’t have argued with her. I said things that—I can’t help but feel this is my fault, that if I hadn’t said those things, she wouldn’t have left.” He grabs my wrists, desperate for eye contact. “I lost Danny, I can’t lose her too. She has to be alive. She has to!”
After a second of not knowing what to say, I gently take his hand off me and close his fingers around the bottle. “If she’s alive, then she’ll find her way back, won’t she? You need to sleep, or else you’ll be sick by the time she comes back.”
I don’t know if I did the right thing telling him that, but depriving him of a last wisp of hope seems cruel. Let him draw comfort in that and sleep for today.
Reluctantly, he opens the bottle and swallows a pill with the help of a cup of water. After making sure he’s sleeping, I leave the room to find a little comfort in my own bed. I drift off to sleep not much later, Lily’s narrow stare following me in a dream.
In the middle of the night, Dr. Ade wakes me up with frenetic knocks on my door. After a week of radio silence, I almost think I’m still dreaming, but when I open the door, his face seems real enough under the faint light of the hallway.
“Dr. Paz, I’m sorry to wake you, but your assistance is needed.”
I blink. “Was Lily found? Does she need my help?”
Wikus looks side to side, head shaking. “No, unfortunately not. Please follow me, it’s urgent. I’ll explain later.”
Still half-awake, I follow him through the labyrinth of dimly lit hallways. Maybe an accident during a patrol? But he guides me
away from the infirmary and toward the central labs. We change into the bright yellow protective gear, put on gloves and a face mask each to enter the quarantined chambers. Wikus gives me no time to breathe, ushering me to an isolated quarantine room. I stop at the door, now fully awake from the shock.
Lying on a table, bound by leather straps, is Mouse. He’s hooked up to various machines that monitor his heart rate, oxygen saturation, and blood pressure. Not only that, but he’s receiving saline solution intravenously to stay hydrated. There’s no other reason to do any of this unless… Could it be?
“What happened?” I ask Wikus, slowly moving closer to Mouse’s still body.
“After Prudence’s promising data and my studies, we decided it was safe to test the serum. We—”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were doing this?” I snap at him. “I thought I made it clear these people are my patients. They’re my responsibility. You said you would—”
All urgency is gone from his tone. He straightens himself. “This is my team and research, doctor. Research that you yourself said can’t wait, for the good of humanity. I assure you, I wouldn’t have injected him with it if I wasn’t sure, confident it would work.”
I look at him with furrowed brows. “Looks like it didn’t work at all. How long has he been unconscious?”
Wikus crosses the room, going to the other side of the table to grab a chart from the counter. “Five hours. The sedatives wore off two hours ago, but there’s still no response. I’m at a loss as to what to do.” While he tells me this, I examine Mouse’s stomach and chest, pressing them slightly for signs of any internal damage. “All data indicates the serum has worked.”
As Wikus passes me the chart, I open Mouse’s eyelids, then check his pulse and breathing. Apart from scratches, a busted wrist, and a few superficial animal bites, he looks healthier than ever. His extremities have gone back to their original coloring now that his circulatory system has recovered. He still has tumors and bumps covering his body, but the original bite that infected him is clean, with no pus or signs of infection. I read his chart, searching for any clue of what might be wrong.
I observe Mouse’s skull. His bald head exposes some swelling. “Do you have a CT or MRI scanner? I have a theory on what’s causing this.”
We roll Mouse’s table to the examination room and scan his skull. As expected, there’s an internal hemorrhage from an acute subdural hematoma.
“He’s in a coma,” I tell Wikus, passing the results to him. “From a head injury, probably suffered at the time of his infection. The virus kept the bleeding to a minimum, but now that his blood pressure is elevated again, blood has been collecting within the skull, compressing the brain.”
“Is it hopeless, then? No chance of recovery?”
In normal circumstances, considering the age of the injury, I would’ve given up on Mouse, but the virus actually stopped the worst of the damage, giving me time to try to fix him.
“I need to do a few more tests, but I could perform surgery, remove the blood clot. I’ll need proper tools and someone to assist me.”
Wikus nods. “I’ll do it. You’ll have everything you require, Maria. We need to perform this surgery as quickly as possible. He needs to live. I’ll ask my team to assist you in any way they can.”
I nod, somewhat taken back at his quick support. “Thank you.”
As promised, Wikus mobilizes the team to prepare the operation room. Both Prudence and Artie are awoken to assist me, much to Prudence’s anguish. She drinks three cups of coffee before scrubbing in with us. I take one myself, just to stave off the remaining heaviness behind my eyelids.
While we take our positions and finish preparations, a group of guards appear on the small gallery above the room to watch the surgery. Irons is one of them. Unlike me, she hardly looks like someone who just woke up in the middle of the night. Dressed in uniform, hair perfectly done and tied into a ponytail, she talks with Wikus with her hands behind her back, eyes moving from him to the table where Mouse lies unconscious. Next to her, Wikus appears small. He keeps his eyes downcast and fidgets while relaying something to her and pointing in our direction. With a quick nod from Irons, Wikus steps back and disappears from the room.
“What’s that about?” I ask Prudence, who’s busy sterilizing my tools. She shrugs her shoulders.
“Should I... Should I help you put these on?” Artie raises a pair of gloves and swallows hard. “Right?”
Still staring at the observation gallery, I nod and let him do it while keeping my hands raised and away from my gown. When it takes him longer than it should, I tear my eyes away from the gallery and focus on the assistant. His hands shake, gaze shifting from me to the table and the patient.
“Are you okay?” I make sure to wait for him to look straight at me before continuing, “He’s secured, I made sure of it.” In fact, I triple-checked the leather bonds holding his wrists before we started. Unlikely as it is for him to wake up during surgery, I won’t take any risks.
“Y-Yes.” The stuttering doesn’t inspire confidence, but it’s not like I have a choice about who gets to participate.
“Don’t be nervous. Just don’t drop the towel on the patient when you dry my forehead. And that’s it. I’ll do the rest, okay?”
He blinks twice before nodding.
As I move behind the table to better access Mouse’s skull, Wikus opens the double doors of the operating room, snapping at Artie for being slow to help him dress.
Finally, with everyone positioned, we nod to each other and I lower my head to start as Prudence pumps Mouse with anesthesia. Acutely aware of every single person watching me, I take a deep breath to clear my head. Slowly, surely, everything around me becomes a blur and my whole focus is on Mouse’s bald head.
The work is slow and careful. I’m far from a neurosurgeon but, without a specialist at hand, I try my best. After making an incision on his left side, I peel back his scalp carefully. Prudence passes me a drill, which I use to make small holes to remove part of his skull, exposing the blood clot under the network of arteries and veins. Holding my breath and steadying my hand, I divide them with a scalpel to access the subdural hematoma. Prudence takes the drill away and Wikus hands me the suction and irrigation tube.
Time seems to slow down as I keep working with clenched teeth and furrowed brows. Sweat runs down my face as the heat of the lights above the table fries the top of my head. Artie’s trembling hands reach for my forehead to dry. He fumbles and my body tenses up, expecting the worst, but an instant later he removes the small towel before an accident can happen. I insert a patch and secure the skull back in place using small titanium plates and screws that Wikus passes to me. It’s only after I finish suturing the scalp closed that the rush of adrenaline fades from my muscles and allows them to feel the strain of standing for hours straight.
“Is it done?” Wikus’s faint voice draws me away from the now-closed skull.
A bit dizzy, I turn my head toward him and nod. “Yes. Now we need to wait. It might take—”
“How long until he wakes up?” Wikus says, but not to me. He gestures in Prudence’s and the anesthetic machine’s direction.
“How should I know? I gave him the light sedative like you asked.” I frown at this news. “I’m not a doctor.”
“Give him a reversal agent. Quickly.”
Prudence’s response is a shrug, so Wikus rushes past me to reach the machine himself. I waste no time in following him, anger flaring up at him going behind my back.
“Stop.” I place a hand on his arm as he presses the button. “We need him sedated at least until we’re sure there are no other—”
Artie’s shriek stops me cold. We all turn at the sound as Mouse bursts free from his bonds, grabs Artie by the wrist, and then pushes himself up while vomiting a thick black substance on the assistant’s face.
How!? I checked... My heart pounds against my chest as every part of my body freezes, deciding on what to do.
; Artie yanks himself free, only to trip on the IV’s lines and fall on his back, ripping the catheter off the back of Mouse’s hand. As liquid flows freely onto the floor, the infected screams at the top of his lungs and again fixes his bloodshot and bulging eyes on Artie, who still struggles to crawl away from the table.
Is Irons coming? I feel the cold spreading down my spine. It doesn’t matter. We’re too close. He’s too close. Artie doesn’t have time.
I search for something, anything, I can use as a weapon... On my right, I spot a fire extinguisher and an axe inside a cabinet. Too far. On my left: the drill and the scalpel next to the table.
Mouse jumps off the table and on top of a screaming Artie, his mouth biting the man’s ankle, ripping the blue fabric of his pants and sinking his teeth into Artie’s flesh. I sprint to my tools, grab the drill, and sink it into the infected, tender lower skull. Mouse twitches, then vomits before stopping altogether. His face falls on Artie’s stomach. He winces and gasps in pain, but stays put.
The assistant and I stare at each other. He breathes heavily, chest rising fast, expression frozen in complete shock. His neck and lower face are bloodied, but the surgical mask protected him from the contaminated fluids.
The doors of the operation room are slammed open and hurried, heavy steps echo around us. I lower the hand holding the drill and sigh in relief. As I catch my breath, the guards drag Mouse’s body off Artie, leaving a trail of black blood behind. I hear Irons’s voice barking orders, but my attention is elsewhere.
Soaked with sweat, I crouch in front of Artie. He’s still down on the floor, body trembling, all color drained from his face. Slowly his gloved hands reach for his ankle, where a nasty bite gushes blood freely. This is my fault. Again.
“It’s okay, we have the cure now,” I whisper to him, gently trying to move his hands away from the wound.
Artie stares wide-eyed at me. “No... No. Don’t. I don’t want the serum.” He fumbles with his words, eyes pleading.
“It can work, we just need to keep you safe while we test it more.”
Glass breaks nearby but just as I begin to turn to see what’s happened, Artie grabs me and shakes his head fervently. “Please. No serum. They’ll—”
Those Who Remain (Book 3) Page 15
