by J B Stilwell
As he recounts the entire conversation that I had thought was a dream, I completely miss the fact that he has taken my hands into his and is looking at the damage done.
“We should go upstairs and get these cleaned up and bandaged before the Bree and Rick get back,” he says.
I pull my hands free. “Where are they?”
Tucker leans back on his heels. “They went for dinner,” he says, making quotation marks with his fingers when saying the word dinner.
I struggle to get up and Tucker leans in to help me to my feet. My back goes rigid, as I don’t know whether I should let him help me or not.
“This would be easier on me if you could relax,” he says.
I allow Tucker to help me up and follow him up the stairs. Abe is snoring softly on the couch, wrapped up in adult-sized fetal position. We walk across the room to the back corner where there is a bathroom. He flips the light on, turns the faucets on and waits for the water to get lukewarm. He turns to me with a very serious look on his face, as if he is daring anything to break his concentration. He gently takes my hands and holds them under the water, then begins to wash them with the bacterial soap. He takes such gentle care, cautious not to hurt me again, that it makes me wonder if everything that had happened was just a hiccup in his behavior. Could he like me so much that he actually didn’t know what to do, how to act? Surely a guy couldn’t like me that much. It’s like a twisted version of my high school fantasies.
As he washes and dries my hands, I try to really look at him, to see past his previous actions. He definitely isn’t unattractive. And he has pulled himself together, his clothes are no longer disheveled and his hair is properly placed in its neat ponytail at the back of his neck. So shiny and healthy looking. Maybe he uses Pantene. I shake my head.
He looks at me as he rifles through the medicine cabinet for gauze and medical tape. “What? You don’t want them bandaged?”
I half smile. “No, they need to be bandaged. Don’t want to get infection.”
He smiles and begins wrapping my hands. Once he finishes taping the gauze, Rick slams against the doorjamb, a panicked look on his face. I jump and squeal. His fangs are extended and he is glaring at Tucker.
“Horse piss and apple butter, Rick! You scared me half to death.”
He snarls, looking at my hands. “What happened?”
“I fell and scraped my palms. Tucker was being nice enough to help me bandage them. Why did you come rushing to the bathroom? Too much to drink at dinner?”
He looks at Tucker, and then looks at me. His teeth retract as he stares into my eyes. “I smelled your blood.” He turns and walks away.
I look after him for a moment then turn to Tucker, a questioning look on my face. He shrugs and says, “Vampires. What are you going to do? They hear everything, smell everything. Hell, when they went public, it even put an end to crop-dusting.”
“Crop-dusting?” I ask.
He grins, “Yeah, you know. Subtly passing gas in a public place then quickly walking away to divert blame.”
I can’t help rolling my eyes, “God. No more boy-secrets, okay? With things like that, it’s no wonder that West Virginians are regularly featured on PeopleofWalmart.com.”
Tucker laughs as we walk back into the main room. Rick and Bree are nowhere to be found, Abe is still sleeping and Ms. Montgomery is still reading at the table. I hadn’t even noticed she was still there when we passed by. Sometimes she melds with the scenery.
“Ms. Montgomery?” I say as I approach the table. “Did you by chance see which way Rick went?”
Without looking up from her journal she says, “He and Bree went downstairs for the day.” I can’t figure it out. How does she do that? I’m beginning to think that she had eyes on the sides of her head, more like a bird than a human. A big, scary bird. Like a buzzard waiting to feed on the carcasses of the unfortunate. Yuck.
I look at my watch. 5:00 a.m. Three more hours and we will be meeting for the experiment. My stomach gurgles in bile-worthy anticipation. I should probably eat before we do this. A little food will help to settle my stomach. I turn to see Tucker sitting on the first cot. He is watching me like he isn’t sure what I am going to do next. I walk over and sit on the second cot, lowering my eyes a bit.
“I figure we should probably rest for a couple of hours before we have to, well, you know,” he says.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. And my sleep was interrupted.”
“I said I was sorry. I really did think that you were awake.”
I smile at him, lifting my eyes ever so slightly, “I know. I was just teasing you. Let’s get some sleep.”
I lie back on the cot and stretch out on my side, my face toward Tucker’s cot. He also rests on his side, facing me. He smiles brightly before closing his eyes.
I take a deep breath and wish that I could sleep through the day. I don’t know what to expect and my stomach spasms tell me that I’m not going to like it. Maybe they’ll cancel it at the last minute. I tremble as a creepy-crawly sensation moves in waves across my skin. I take a deep breath. What I’m willing to do for a little money to pay off some student loans. I just hope I’m not emotionally scarred in the process.
Chapter 13
In a quasi-dream state, I hear someone say, “Dr. Burcham? Dr. Burcham, it’s time to get up.”
I slowly open my eyes to see Ms. Montgomery crouching beside my cot. I swear she has a pencil poised, ready to tap me on the forehead if I don’t wake up. The corner of her mouth twitches. “It’s almost time, Dr. Burcham. We should have breakfast.” She stands up and runs her hands over her clothes to straighten any wrinkles. When she walks away, I turn to see that Tucker is just waking, too. He stretches then pulls the rubber band from his hair and shakes out those glorious golden-wheat-colored locks before arranging them back into a tight ponytail.
I slowly sit up and yawn, stretching just enough to make my bones crack.
“Ouch,” he says. “Sounds like someone would have been better off in a soft bed.”
Trying to talk through a yawn I say, “Ah...not really...happens then, too.”
Abe walks over and sits beside Tucker, “Good morning. We have about forty minutes before we have to meet Mr. Caulfield.”
“Good,” I say, “I’m in serious need of coffee. Do you all know where the cafeteria is?”
Ms. Montgomery pipes in as she walks back over toward the cots, “I was listening when the admin gave directions. I can take us there.”
Trying to ignore the slight jab, I smile and say, “Great. Lead us to caffeine and protein with a side of sugar.”
She turns and starts walking toward the exit without bothering to see if we will follow. I guess it is just an assumption. Actually, after the way she has acted, it is probably more of a “follow me if you want, I will not be bothered if you don’t.” The level of her disinterest in others is a study in what I call social dissociation, not necessarily in the clinical sense. A person acts within society, even contributes, but artfully and rather bluntly makes little or no commitment to associate with others. Keeping your distance is a profession with these types. I have always wondered if it is an issue of not having any emotions toward others or skillfully, almost certifiably, separating those emotions from the activities of every day life. If the project lasts long enough, maybe I’ll get a better understanding of this woman.
We follow her down the hall to a very lavish cafeteria. The set up here makes the accommodations at the other facility look like a grade-school lunchroom. There are breakfast items to quell the appetite of even the pickiest eater. Even more enjoyable is the fact that we have the place to ourselves, so we don’t have to fight for a place to sit.
As we begin collecting our trays and silverware, I become conscious of what I should choose to eat since I am dining for the first time with people that I barely know. One gluttonous selection could have me forever painted as Miss Piggy in the minds of my peers. I choose some fruit, yogurt and a boiled egg wi
th a generous cup of steaming black coffee. Yay for will power.
We all sit at the same table. As chance would have it, I end up sitting between Abe and Tucker with Ms. Montgomery sitting across from me. First thing’s first, I need to begin the intake of coffee.
“Is anyone else apprehensive about what is going to happen after breakfast?” Abe asks.
“That’s an understatement,” I say as I open my yogurt.
“I think the trick is to keep reminding yourself that regardless of what happens, think of all of the people who will be saved by this research,” Tucker offers.
Abe bobs his head, “I totally agree. I don’t want to necessarily see certain things.”
“Like a vampire dying a brutal death?” I ask.
Abe nods. “Well, kill one to save millions?” I suggest.
Tucker grunts, “Millions of humans. There will be plenty of vampires that will die.”
“Vampires who are killing humans,” Abe says. “There is no prison system in the world that could hold one vampire, much less the number we’re discussing. Death will be the only way to protect future generations of the species.”
I look at Abe, “If you are so in favor of this, then why does what we’re about to do seem to bother you so much?”
He looks deeply into my eyes, “Because I am a human and not a vampire.”
“We kill humans who kill humans,” Ms. Montgomery says.
We all look at her, simultaneously amazed that she actually says anything. She looks up at us, “The death penalty for capital crime is nothing new. There should not be a change in our morality because we’re talking about vampires. What does that say about how we view humans?”
“True, but we don’t do experiments on humans to try to prevent crime. We have a punitive system in place to deter such behavior,” Tucker says.
“And that works oh, so well,” I respond.
“Don’t kid yourself that we don’t do experiments on humans,” Ms. Montgomery states.
We all stare at her in complete silence. She goes back to eating her breakfast, not bothering to offer any explanation.
I clear my throat, “Those medical and psychiatric experiments have been viewed as unethical since the early 1970s. Human subjects cannot be used unless they volunteer in the sense of giving consent, not because they have done something that is not socially acceptable like is the case with Thalia.”
She slowly looks back up. “And the fact that certain benefits, such as money, being offered for participation doesn’t preclude consent? I would suggest then that we research the scientific altruism of the poor and various minority groups.” She again goes back to eating her breakfast.
Abe nods, “Any way you look at it, it’s a necessary evil.”
Inhaling deeply I say, “A necessary evil is still evil.”
Solemnly, Tucker replies, “I’m sure that we would all feel just a little bit differently if one of our loved ones had been killed by one of these vamps.”
We eat in silence after that comment, as if we are meditating on what Tucker had said and whether or not such an experience would have made a difference in our view of the current state of the world. It is hard to argue against the good that could be done in stopping senseless human deaths. It is also hard to argue that cruel experimentations on vampires are the only solution. The thing is that if we were talking about dogs, all of this would be illegal and there would be a contingency of voters protesting at the gates. But vampires? No one seems to notice or care.
As we finish our breakfast, Abe pushes away from the table after looking at his watch. “It would appear to be time.”
We all deposit our trays in the designated area and walk silently through the halls to meet up with Mr. Caulfield who is patiently waiting for us outside of Thalia’s holding cell. When we appear she begins spitting at the glass wall and laughing like a possessed clown at the spawn of Satan’s birthday party. Mr. Caulfield glances her way then addresses us. “Good morning. I hope that you were able to get enough rest and prepare for the day’s events.”
“What exactly are the day’s events?” I ask.
“Perfect timing, Dr. Burcham,” he motions down the hall, “our help has arrived.”
The loud clanking of metal against the marble floor and grating sound of metal gears catch our attention as we gaze down the hall and see a woman encased in what could only be described as a robotic suit of armor. As she moves toward us, making her way to the side door of the cell, Mr. Caulfield continues, “Ms. Cooper will sedate Thalia and obtain the required specimens for the experiment.”
“Required specimens?” Abe asks. “I thought Thalia was the required specimen?”
“Not at all, Dr. Krishnamurthy. We only need a part of Thalia, not her whole person. There is no reason to kill the vampire for such a small observation.”
I look wide-eyed at the holding cell as the door opens, Ms. Cooper’s metal visage taking up the whole opening, blocking Thalia from escaping. Thalia begins pacing back and forth in the cell, staring at the titanium omen of impending doom. Ms. Cooper seems to stand at attention, waiting for the opportune time to begin her assault on her target. The only thing missing is the iconic yell of “get away from her you bitch” a la Ripley in Aliens.
“If you are going to sedate her, why the Ripley get-up? Why not just use a tranquilizer gun?” I ask.
“Vampires move too quickly. Even with our best shot, she would most likely dodge the tranquilizer dart.” Mr. Caulfield explains.
He turns around and motions for Ms. Cooper to proceed. The large, robotic arms spread out as if Ms. Cooper is going to give Thalia a big bear hug. Thalia crouches low, moving side to side as she stalks her aggressor. Within a split second Thalia charges and Ms. Cooper catches her around the mid-section, practically crushing her. She then rams Thalia against the far wall where she proceeds to bolt her to the wall with metal clamps around her wrists, neck, waist and ankles.
Thalia struggles against her restraints as Ms. Cooper removes a syringe from her robotic sleeve and injects it into Thalia’s neck. I want to look away but feel obligated to watch since I had agreed to go along with the experiment. Well, I didn’t necessarily agree, but I didn’t refuse. The ends are the same.
When Thalia’s head begins to sag in drug-induced unconsciousness, Ms. Cooper puts the syringe back in her sleeve. Another woman in a white coat joins her in the cell. The new assistant holds out transparent containers to contain the specimens. Ms. Cooper nods then removes something from her sleeve. I’m not sure, but it looks like surgical scissors. My lips slightly part as I concentrate on the scene before me. In some ways I feel like I am trapped in a night terror, although I know that what is happening is real life and not the machinations of a mind distraught from late-night junk food binges. I quickly glance at the others who stand motionless, eyes glued to Ms. Cooper and the instrument in her hand. She leans forward and grasps Thalia’s left hand. Deftly holding the vampires hand out, Ms. Cooper begins to cut individual fingers off.
At this point I no longer feel a nagging obligation to watch and allow my eyes to drop to the floor. I feel a hand on my elbow but do not move to see who it is. After several minutes I hear footsteps walking in our direction and dare to glance up to see Ms. Cooper’s assistant approaching. She hands Mr. Caulfield the specimen containers. As they exchange some words I can’t understand, Ms. Cooper starts the process of removing the metal bands from around Thalia’s body, starting with her ankles. When she releases the last wrist, Thalia drops to the floor, blood streaking down the white wall, her bloody stump the paintbrush of the scientific art we were about to create.
Like most artists we work in death and will be praised by the masses for our vision and ingenuity. Also like most artists, we will get no satisfaction from it although we will become immortal for our work. Future generations will know us for what we did. Thankfully, unlike the vampires, I won't have to look any of them in the eye and graciously acquiesce to their admiration.
&
nbsp; Mr. Caulfield turns to us with the specimen containers in hand. There is a bloody finger in each transparent box. “You will use these specimens in your experiment with sun light. We felt it necessary to make sure that the specimens contained bone so that you could observe the full effect on more than just flesh.”
Abe clears his throat, “Sir, with all due respect, surely there was another method that we could have pursued that didn’t include mutilation.”
“To ensure the integrity of the results, we must create an experimental environment where the variables are as close to real life as possible,” Mr. Caulfield explains. “The only thing closer to real life would be to put Thalia out in the sun and observe her dying. Would that be more suitable to your sensitivities, Dr. Krishnamurthy?”
“Of course not, sir,” Abe replies, “I was just making an inquiry into other less gruesome options.”
“The videos that you all viewed were the only other possibility. And since you made it abundantly clear that the videos were not good enough to answer the questions that had arisen in your respective projects, we arranged this experiment on your behalf.” Mr. Caulfield is turning a slight red color, as he seems to struggle to maintain his composure. I can only guess as to why the question is upsetting him so much. “With all due respect, Dr. Krishnamurthy,” he continues, “when we find ourselves questioning the legitimacy and efficacy of this tactic, we should remind ourselves that it was members of your project team that requested such an arrangement.”
Abe visibly tenses his shoulders, “Yes, sir.”
“Now, there are separate designated areas on the grounds for you to do your observation with a minimal amount of distraction.” He hands two containers to Abe and two to me while Ms. Cooper's assistant provides us with surgical gloves. When I hesitate in taking the specimens, Ms. Montgomery retrieves them, seemingly without a second thought as to what they contain.
“When your observation is complete, return to the front door of the facility. Once everyone - save Dr. Vinh and Dr. Allstedt - has gathered, you will be escorted back to the other facility where you may return to your living quarters for the day.”
