She remained silent and walked even faster, so Trent stopped when she passed through the sectional doorway. The other nurse paused, however, and faced Trent with a timid smile. Then she bowed and said, “We so very sorry... She, um... No speaking English.”
“I see,” Trent replied. Despite her own plodding effort with the language, he pointed at her cart and said, “I wanted to know if these supplies are being used for the processing of Eternity.”
“No,” the nurse answered. “It’s for our patients.” She scrunched her eyes and asked, “Are you... Dr. Benson?”
“Actually, no, I’m his brother.”
She quieted and examined Trent with a puzzled face.
Trent decided he was wasting his time. “Thank you,” he said, but as he walked away, he considered the nurse’s reference to patients. What patients? Manoukian told him that a few inpatients were in B Wing near the executive offices. He mentioned nothing about patients in E Wing.
A group of traversing workers interrupted Trent’s musings. They noticed Trent and stopped their conversation to give him a curious once-over. Trent returned their stares and said, “Don’t worry. I’m Dr. Benson’s brother.”
They smiled and nodded politely, but remained wordless, so Trent hurried into the side room from which the two nurses emerged. It was a medical supply room, and he figured the handy hospital gear would help him blend in. He fit scrubs over his jeans and slipped into a hairnet. But to complete his disguise, he pulled the medallion from his pocket and placed its chain around his neck, where it suspended between the lapels of his borrowed lab coat.
* * * *
Toka Tacau barged through the double doors of E wing’s secluded lobby. To the new security guard, he boomed, “Have you seen anyone?”
“No, sir,” the guard answered. “No one through here.”
Toka studied the walkway through which an intruder might have ventured. There was nothing that could obscure an approach by someone who didn’t belong. Then he spotted the air ducts attached to the ceiling. “What about up there? Could someone have crawled through the vents and into E Wing?”
The guard looked up and studied the square-shaped tunnels. “Maybe someone not too big.”
“That must be it,” Toka muttered to himself. “He’s small enough to fit in there, the son of a bitch.” He turned back to the seated security guard, pointed at the secured entrance, and demanded, “Let me in there.”
The guard stood up and presented the retina scanner.
Toka ripped the device from the guard’s hand and slammed it onto the desk. “Open the damn door!” he yelled.
The appalled security guard returned to his station and tapped the necessary buttons on his control panel. The E Wing gateway slid open, but when Toka hastened through, he stopped and whirled around with a scowl. “Don’t open this gate for anyone until I get back.”
* * * *
Trent stepped from the supply room and, in his altered attire, returned to the hall of circular portals. More determined than ever to breach the vetoed vaults, he paced down and back again, hoping to slip through a rotated gateway. Finally, one activated, and he skipped past the exiting technician.
Once inside, Trent froze in his tracks. Perpendicular to the outer wall, multiple hospital beds lined the room about four feet apart. A closer look revealed them to be wheeled gurneys, but these were topped in curved shields of glass. Hinged on the side to open like coffins, each contained a motionless human body while oxygen tanks attached to headboards supplied purified air. Men and women, all ethnic Asians, were either unconscious or in a comatose state, much like the chimps Trent observed earlier. He guessed they were all Chinese nationals, as were their caretakers buzzing about.
Adding to the indignity, they were clad only in scant hospital gowns, and a series of wires, tubing, and electrodes protruded from every one of them. The largest concentrations of the invading devices were arranged around the top and sides of their shaved heads or along the spinal columns on the few lying face down. Between the cots, electronic cabinets with monitors scanned brain waves and logged vital signs, as in D wing for the comatose chimps.
Unlike D wing, however, plastic tubing on these cabinets filled transparent containers with a clear bodily fluid. Trent recognized it. Compound X. The tubing stretched through the side of each capsule below the glass bubble and terminated inside the head of each unmoving person. When full, nurses replaced the containers with empty ones so the collection process would proceed uninterrupted.
The nurses took the filled receptacles to a station on the opposite wall, where they were labeled and placed on a cart. Before long, a male technician would gather them for processing in another part of the wing. Trent had discovered the secret ingredient, and his stomach soured. He counted ten bunks, with each end bunk flush against the sectional divide. Normal double doors were located in the center of the divide. These doors were propped open, allowing movement between rooms.
Based on the size of the wing, Trent guessed there could be up to ten rooms on each side of the central corridor. That meant E Wing might contain near two hundred patients. He approached a capsule to inspect the body inside and examine the abstruse apparatus to which it connected.
Most workers ignored him, but one of the male technicians seemed to take exception to Trent’s visit. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes,” Trent answered. “I’m the inspector.”
“Where is Dr. Benson?”
“He quit. What is that stuff you’re extracting from these people?”
“And you are?”
“I’m Dr. Benson’s brother.”
“If you are Dr. Benson’s brother, then why does your nametag identify you as Fitzsimmons?”
“Because, um, that’s my name. Fitzsimmons Benson.”
The technician narrowed his eyes. “Fitzsimmons Benson?”
“Yeah,” Trent said, thinking fast. “But you can call me Fitz.” He fondled the medallion that dangled in front of his chest.
When the technician noted the medallion, his eyes became relaxed. “Well, then,” he continued with a softer tone, “as you probably already know, we’re extracting cerebrospinal fluid from our patients. It’s the base ingredient that, after processing, we send over to C wing for instilment into the serum.”
“Right,” Trent pretended to agree. “That’s where they combine it with the diacetylmorphine. But do you know the exact ratios and measurements? I’m particularly interested in the use of tetrodotoxin.”
“No,” the technician answered. “That’s all controlled by the computers.”
“Not anymore,” Trent was quick to say. “The computers are off line.”
“We’re aware of that. Without the computers, production will come to a stop, probably very soon.”
“Then why are you continuing to extract the cerebrospinal fluid?”
“We’ve been ordered to continue. Mr. Soriah figures to have the problem solved fast enough, like the last time it happened. Until then, he intends to proceed with procurement, and C Wing will finalize production of the serum that was already processed before the computers went down.”
“That’s where I come in,” Trent said. “I need to understand how you will disconnect these devices from your patients.”
“Well, you know we can’t just unplug them,” the technician advised. “The tubes extracting the CSF are spliced to the choroid plexus inside the third ventricle of the brain.”
“Is it that way for all of the patients?”
“No, some of them have the tubes spliced into the lateral ventricles. Others are connected to the cerebral aqueducts into the fourth ventricle, but those are the exceptions.”
“Why?”
“The third ventricle provides the best results, but sometimes it’s necessary to alternate the source of the ependymal cells.”
“What would it take to disconnect them?”
“It’s a complicated operation, conducted by Dr. Benson.”
�
��Only Dr. Benson can perform that operation?”
“No, Dr. Lee and Dr. Wong can do it, but it’s usually Dr. Benson.”
“Why Benson?”
“Because Doctors Wong and Lee conduct the surgery to introduce the extractors. When the patients are ready for disconnection, Benson does it. That was his condition to participate in the process.”
“His condition to participate?”
“Yes, it was Dr. Benson’s idea to use cerebrospinal fluid, but only human specimens returned positive results. When Mr. Soriah arranged for the importation of our donors, Dr. Benson—your, uh, brother—didn’t like the idea of preserving them in the stasis tubes.”
“I see,” Trent replied. “What about the patients lying on their stomachs? Are they hooked up inside their brains, too?”
“No. They have been deemed unfit for ventricular extraction. For them we’ve resorted to the traditional method—a procedure called lumbar puncture.”
“So what happens when your donors run out of cerebrospinal fluid?”
“That doesn’t happen. Everyone’s body produces more than five hundred milliliters of CSF every day. Since the human brain only accommodates one hundred and fifty milliliters, we have an ample resource right here in E Wing.”
Trent listened with interest, but found his temper tested yet again. “Just where do all these patients come from?”
“They’re shipped in from China.”
“And the workers here?”
“Shipped in from China. Most of them don’t even speak English.”
Trent remembered the two nurses and their limited English skills, but this man didn’t share the deficiency. “How is it you speak English so well?”
“I’m from San Francisco.”
Trent nodded and then scanned the cabinets into which the wires and tubes connected. Attempting to decipher the elaborate technology, he saw something that made his blood boil. It was the same I.V. set-up of tetrodotoxin and solvent he had observed on the chimps in D Wing. He didn’t notice it earlier because the labeled cylinders were located much lower on these particular cabinets. “Wait a minute, that’s TTX being pumped right into this guy.” He checked the adjacent machinery. “Into all these people. What’s the big idea? There are other ways—safer ways—to induce comas.”
The technician explained, “But that’s the genius of your brother’s solution to the transmutation. TTX, introduced through I.V.s in precise ratios, maintains the donors’ comatose state, while at the same time compiles the necessary residue in their cerebrospinal fluid to use as an ingredient for Eternity. It’s vital for the anabolic alteration and also provides the ideal counter effect to the diacetylmorphine, which is necessary for metabolic stimulation.”
“So my brother’s a genius, eh? I don’t buy it. I know about TTX. It’s not something you want to mess around with. It’s too dangerous.”
Trent’s tone must have disturbed the man, because he drew back and narrowed his eyes again. “Well, you’ll have to excuse me,” he said while slipping into the next chamber. “I must return to my duties.”
The other workers, not having understood a single word of the discussion, merely went about their business as before. Trent followed the technician but stopped at the sectional wall and viewed the glass gurneys in the adjoining room. It was an identical set up. He backtracked to the opposite wall and saw the same picture. Trent could only imagine what it must be like for each of the sleeping individuals. It could very well be true that all of them were aware of their surroundings, if indeed their comas were induced by tetrodotoxin. The mere thought of it triggered a sudden rush of adrenaline through his veins.
But then Trent’s head felt strange, and the constant motion of the Chinese staffers seemed to speed up as if on fast-forward. Watching them come and go in the quick, unnatural manner made Trent dizzy. Next, the room started spinning, slowly at first, then faster. Trying to overcome the sudden rush of vertigo, he gripped the doorjamb and sank his head into the crook of his arm.
With his balance anchored, Trent dared look up again, but now everything swirled around in a turbulent vortex, faster and faster. And through it, he heard voices. Soft whispers at first, but they grew louder. In scant moments, the unintelligible words transformed to screams inside his head. Trent recognized the languages. In Mandarin and Cantonese, the patients were pleading to be awakened from this nightmare of silent suffering.
Trent closed his eyes and palmed his forehead. Exhaustion due to lack of food and sleep was catching up to him. What else could it be? The drug? After only one shot, was he succumbing to its side effect, too? He returned his brow to the fold of his arm. “I’ll try,” he said. “I’ll try to help you.”
Perspiration soaked his sleeve, and his own heartbeat seemed incredibly amplified. The mental mayhem reached a crescendo, the pressure unbearable. Trent’s brain was on fire. He could take no more. “I will help you!” he shouted while springing his eyes wide again.
At once, the voices were gone, and the spinning stopped. The white-clad workers moved about normally, although his shout had drawn some stares. “I’m okay,” he said. He wondered if it was true.
Trent shook his head and wished Samantha could be here. She was working to bring this operation down, and he was convinced more than ever it needed to happen. Not for any future goals of a separate society Soriah may have planned. The inhumane practice of inducing comas with a dangerous toxin so as to loot precious bodily fluids had to stop.
Samantha said she wasn’t working alone, that she would have a contact already inside the facility. Who was it? Charles entered his mind, but Trent dismissed him just as quickly. Charles was too close to Soriah, and Trent sensed an unwavering loyalty in the man. It must be someone else.
For now, Trent needed to get out of E Wing and do what he could to free these hopelessly enslaved immigrants. Even if he did destroy the flash drive in his pocket, Trent was sure the fate of the sleepers would remain unchanged. Knowing Soriah’s determination, the research would continue for however long it took to recreate his elixir of eternal life. The FBI had to be notified, but who was the contact?
Trent returned to the portal and scanned its surface for the means to open it. There were no knobs or buttons to press. On the adjacent wall, he noted a red translucent patch. It was a motion sensor. He passed his hand over it, and the dual circular gates began their counter rotation. But when the movement stopped, the corridor failed to appear. A blue-clad giant blocked the aperture. It was the immense security chief—Toka Tacau!
Before Trent could even make eye contact, Toka snared him by the neck and raised him off the floor. In seconds, he would be asphyxiated, or the man’s great strength would snap his vertebrae. Trent had to do something, and it had to be fast. He reached for the motion sensor, and the double doors reacted, catching Toka’s forearms in the reverse rotation. The howling chief released Trent and jerked his arms back before they were mangled.
Trent doubled over and coughed the air back into his lungs, all the while cursing himself for dropping his guard and allowing an enemy to catch him by surprise. Within seconds he stood up again and glared at the giant security chief through the portal’s circular window. Toka was glaring back.
Since the masquerade was finished, Trent removed the coat and scrubs, along with the hairnet, and tore the pendant from his neck. He threw it to the floor and then devised a martial strategy. For a man as thick as this, he would have to target the most vital nerves in the spots with the least muscle. He recalled the fight with Topu Tacau almost cost him his life. Clearly, Toka was every bit as tough as his brother. Perhaps even more so.
Most of the Chinese workers had abandoned the room when the security chief assaulted Trent, but some on the far end were still unaware of the brief conflict that had just transpired. Two nurses crossed the room and, oblivious to the standoff, activated the portal. After they exited, Toka stepped inside and pointed at Trent. “You will die an agonizing death today, you son of a bitch,” he
growled. “You understand that?”
Trent didn’t answer. He stood focused and prepared, but his silence seemed to anger the Samoan even more. “I said I’m going to butcher you senseless!” the huge chief screamed. “You hear me?”
Trent heard enough. “Shut up and do it, you fat pig.”
In a rage, Toka bull-rushed Trent with his hands outstretched. There was no room to maneuver in the small space between the cots, so Trent pivoted and grabbed Toka’s arm with both of his hands. In the same fluid move, he swerved behind him and jerked his arm in a lock that would have dislocated the shoulder of any other man. The chief’s massive frame prevented injury, however, and he pulled free by spinning around and slamming Trent into the flanking gurney. The impact knocked the bubbled capsule out of position, and several of the electrodes broke from its cabinet, spewing a brief shower of dazzling sparks.
Trent slid to the other side of the capsule and pointed to the glass-encased sleepers in the room. “Look around, you brainless oaf,” he said. “These people aren’t dead. They’re in comas, and if we fight in here we could disrupt the machines that are keeping them alive.”
“Who gives a damn about them?” Toka retorted. “They’re already dead as far as anyone cares. And you’re gonna join ’em.” He grabbed the capsule and wrenched it free of its final links. Again, sparks flared and fluids spilled from severed tubing. Showing no concern for the unconscious occupant, the blue-clad giant flung the gurney aside. The glass tube shattered against the opposite wall, and the gurney overturned, dropping its unlucky patient onto the floor amidst the crystalline debris. The workers who remained ran screaming from the ward with their hands raised, dropping everything in their possession, and no one else made their way into this part of the private wing.
Toka charged again, and Trent responded with a kick aimed at the gargantuan chest. Reacting faster than Trent thought he could, Toka seized Trent’s leg and swung him into the electronic cabinetry, which burst into a sparkling display of sizzling pyrotechnics. Trent landed on the floor where the bulky chief tried to stomp him, but Trent rolled from side to side, and Toka’s boot pounded only the wet and shimmering tile.
Killer of Killers Page 26
