by Nick Thacker
Well, actually, she wasn't entirely sure what she was. She just knew that at this point in her career she was not making the sort of difference she had intended to make.
She didn't want to be ungrateful. The offer to join the WHO had been an honor. And she was excited about the opportunity, even though her peers at Johns Hopkins warned her that the WHO was going to be a dead end. She'd dreamed of working with their regional office in Washington, D.C. for years, and jumped at the chance when the offer came.
But burnout set in after only a month, and the excitement and enthusiasm was slowly churning into a malaise. Bit by bit, Jocelyn had watched as the money for "discretionary projects" was constantly under threat of drying up, and the reasons were always related to a lack of local support. Unless there were some health crisis happening right now, people tended to bump medical research to a lower budgetary priority.
Jocelyn tried to stay positive, but after three of her main research projects were canned and the funding was "reinvested" elsewhere, she was starting to lose faith in her calling, and was beginning to wonder if her expensive degree would be better used working at a hospital or medical facility. If she couldn't impact the health of the world, maybe she could at least make a dent in New Jersey.
"Wu." The voice was unmistakable: Ken Grabow. Her direct supervisor. And, if she was pressed to be honest, a real jackass.
Jocelyn turned and saw him eyeing her from the doorway. She arched her eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.
"Come with me." With that, he turned and started walking down the hall.
Hobbled, to be more accurate. Grabow had a noticeable limp that caused him to lean to one side whenever he walked or stood. Jocelyn had never heard him acknowledge it, but she had seen him glower at anyone who stared too long.
She stood and followed Grabow quickly, struggling to catch up even as he limped along. She reached him only to find that he was already rattling off the situation, talking loudly as he struggled down the hallway.
"--Outside of Reno, Nevada, about an hour ago. Meltdown, from what we can gather. Not dangerous, really, but obviously expensive."
He stopped and swiveled, giving her a glare that somehow managed to say, If I'm walking fast, you can too. Hurry the hell up.
Jocelyn quickened her pace, and felt a little disgusted with herself for letting him berate her without even saying a word.
"It seems to have been caused by an engineer on the premises. Cameras found him performing his duties, just like always. Albeit a bit slowly. Until he reached the end of the line and started over."
"Started over?" she asked. Grabow turned into a conference room at the end of the hall, and Jocelyn entered after him. A few other researchers were spread around the massive table, and a bank of flat-panel screens had been wheeled in. Each displayed a different news station.
"Right from the beginning of his list. Performing tasks he'd already finished. He essentially threw off the balance of the entire facility, causing a power failure that led to a core overheating."
One of the researchers saw Jocelyn enter and immediately flicked a button on a remote control. Jocelyn watched as the television at the top-left of the wall of screens switched to a closed-circuit video feed.
The monitors from the nuclear facility.
A timestamp at the bottom of the screen counted upwards as the seconds ticked by, but otherwise the long, slightly-curved hallway in the picture was motionless. She watched for another four seconds until a man appeared at the bottom of the screen.
He moved slowly, one foot dragging slightly on the hard floor, and silently made his way toward a control surface at the right side of the hall. Jocelyn saw the man lean forward, examining the controls as if he'd never seen them before, then reach out and punch two buttons.
He reacted to something off-screen, and then continued his slow journey down the hallway.
Jocelyn was about to ask what they were looking for when she saw it.
There. Right at the end of the hall, just as the man was about to disappear past the top of the TV screen, she saw him flick his head to the left.
Then again.
She reached a hand to her mouth.
"I thought you'd want to see it," Grabow said.
Jocelyn nodded, not diverting her eyes from the monitors.
"That's the same... the same identifier. Just like the others," she whispered.
"Correct," another researcher said. "Same twitch, same pattern, same slow maneuvering. We weren't sure the situations were related, but with the number of events lately..."
"They're related," she said.
Over the past nine weeks she'd done little else but watch video feeds just like this one -- closed-circuit recordings of universities, corporations, malls, and more. Each of them had been painstakingly tracked down and sent to the WHO after her request had cleared.
She had argued that there was a correlation. She had insisted that there be a full forensic sweep of each patient's home and workplace. They had to find what each of these people had in common, so they could work to prevent it from spreading further.
But she was fighting a losing battle. Her superiors at the WHO could find no justifiable medical threat.
Jocelyn had to admit, they had a point. The events were so bizarre, and so random, even she had a hard time accepting they could have a common cause. But the evidence was starting to pile up.
First there were small, insignificant incidents. A night guard at a baseball stadium programming the lights to turn on in the middle of the night, when no games were scheduled. A park ranger switching the emergency broadcast system on and off every hour on the dot. A school bus driver running her rounds on a Saturday and Sunday, undeterred by the lack of children boarding or disembarking from her bus as she made each and every stop.
These were strange, and sometimes even a little funny. They made for good "did ya hear?" stories--the kind of thing that nighttime local news liked to run to break up the parade of blood and murder and sex that was their bread and butter. But to the people involved, especially the families of the patients, these events were simply frightening. There was talk of dementia. Alzheimers, and the neurological deterioration that came with it. But with tests returning negative, and a lack of any real medical evidence, the cases were quietly dismissed as isolated incidents.
Then the events started getting bigger, and less isolated, recurring more often.
The mayor of a small town in Georgia was found dead in his garage, a bowl of cereal spilled at his side. He had apparently used a bottle of bleach instead of milk.
A transoceanic jetliner crashed in Asia, killing nearly 400 people, after the pilot made a series of bad adjustments to the controls at a crucial moment of descent. The last words from the co-pilot were, "What did you just do? We're making our approach!"
And now, an engineer at a nuclear power facility nearly caused a catastrophic meltdown by doing his job, over and over again.
There was an ever-growing number of reports of otherwise normal individuals carrying out mindless tasks, as if sleepwalking, then "coming to" without remembering anything.
Jocelyn had been cataloguing each of the reports, combing through videos, newspaper articles, even social media posts, looking for a connection. She had, by now, listened to dozens of firsthand accounts that seemed to give no real clues. Until, finally, she developed a theory.
These people were all affected by something--possibly a drug--that blocked all pain receptors and dulled their senses. It blanked their short-term memory as well. In effect, it put them in a sleepwalking dream state, and some pre-wired activity in their brain became their default.
Jocelyn recognized the symptoms--slow, lethargic movements, yet determined to reach a goal or perform a task. Often fleeting; symptoms rarely lasted longer than an hour.
Localized dementia. Maybe some form of Pick's disease? Something impacting neurological function, for sure. Pick's was a good fit, in general, but there was no genetic link between
any of the patients.
If the toxicology panels hadn't come back negative for everything they could test for, she would almost think this was heavy metal poisoning.
"We got word about two hours after this was tracked," Grabow said. "Washington wants us to allocate resources to this. It's happening more frequently. And not just in the US."
"Europe?" Jocelyn asked.
"And Asia, Australia, Russia. Let's just cut to the chase and say we have incidents from all over the world."
"Is there a vector?"
Grabow scowled at her, and she felt herself go flush, a mix of anger and shame. She was just doing her job. "No vector," Grabow said, sarcasm thick in his voice. "Is there anything else about your job I can help you with?"
Jocelyn was relatively new to this career, but she wasn't new to standing up to bullies. Grabow seemed to get a pass, most of the time, for reasons she wasn't fully aware of. Maybe it had something to do with the limp.
But at the moment, she knew that she was one of the few people on Earth who had studied this from the perspective of a common cause. Her work might be replicated easily enough, but if Washington was calling this it meant they knew about her work, and her hypothesis. They had asked for her. That gave her some leverage, and that leverage gave her a bit of courage.
"Yes, actually," she said, swallowing. Then, more assertive, "You can get me full access to any reported incidents that match our current list of symptoms. I need all the blood work and histories, and I'd like to interview some of the patients and their families directly."
Grabow regarded her for a moment, steady, then nodded. "You got it. It was approved thirty minutes ago. Get to work."
Grabow hobbled from the room, and Jocelyn turned to face the group of researchers and scientist who were now looking to her for direction. This was her team now. She was in the lead.
Now she just had to figure out what they were dealing with.
FIVE
PRESENT DAY
"You seeing everything that's happening out there?" The female doctor was drawing blood from Adam while the male doctor did something with some equipment in a small, windowed space at the end of the room. Adam's feet were currently pointed at that window. He was strapped down to a padded table, restraints on his ankles and wrists and straps across his legs and his chest. Even his head was being held in firmly in place.
The precautions didn't matter much. They had drugged him with something that made it hard to even stay awake, much less struggle. The best he could manage was an occasional moan.
A tinny, electronic male voice responded, "Yeah. It's a nightmare out there. Getting worse all the time. One of the soldiers told me that there are so many Suppressed in emergency services, no one's really able to put out the fires from that plane crash."
The woman shook her head and made a little noise in the back of her throat. "I thought that's what the program was for. The signal?"
"Not quite organized yet," the man responded. "Looks like the UVFs and the soldiers are getting top priority. I'm sure Dr. Priseman has a plan to roll out control for other emergency services."
Again the woman shook her head. "All those people."
"Best not to think about it. Do what we were trained to do. Focus on the ones we can help, study the ones who are resistant. If there's a way to fix all this, it will come from the work we do here."
The woman nodded then, capped the vial of Adam's blood, and then stood, looking at him as if surveying something she'd just built or repaired. "You think the sedative needs to be bumped up? He's still awake."
"The Lucid seem to have a natural resistance to sedative, but he's pretty doped up right now. Get in here and we'll run the CT."
The woman left Adam's side, and he heard a door open and close. Then a series of noises started, culminating in what sounded like a lawnmower running in a small, closed space.
This went on for quite some time, and Adam drifted in and out during the process. He was finding it hard to concentrate, but he was aware of what was happening. He'd had CAT scans before, and had been present when Sarah had gone through dozens of them.
The blood panels, the CT scans, the endless poking and prodding--what was it they were looking for? They hadn't asked him for a medical history, but he assumed they already had one.
Priseman.
He hadn't quite caught it before, but the name was familiar. David Priseman. The guy in the mobile command unit at the water treatment facility. The guy whose face was on the screens when soldiers dropped out of a helicopter and grabbed him.
What was Priseman's role in all this? And why did they need to study Adam?
There was something else ...
The Suppressed. Something was happening with them, outside this facility. And the plane crash--the jet liner Adam had watched slam into Colorado Springs like a bomb. He had desperately needed to get down there, into that mess. He needed to reach his family.
And that's when things started to clear for him. The sedative was still thick in his bloodstream, and his head still felt like packed cotton, but his last thought before being drugged was of his family.
He struggled to remember what he'd heard on the way in. They were being kept somewhere in this building. T-38. That was the room. And it was close to his own room. If he could somehow get free, he might be able to find them and get them out of here.
The two doctors came back into the room, just as the padded table was sliding out of the large, donut-shaped ring of machinery.
"Got any family out there, in all that chaos?" the man asked.
The woman shook her head. "No. All I had was my dad, and he died three years ago."
"Lucky," the man said.
"You?"
"My sister and my mother live in DC. I think my mother is Suppressed, but my sister thinks it's Alzheimer's. I didn't have the heart to tell her."
"Think they're ok?"
"No," he said. "I think they're probably in the middle of this. Maybe dead by now."
There was a pause. "You don't sound all that worried about it," the woman said quietly.
Another pause. "I try not to think about it. I have a job to do."
They started working the straps that held Adam down. The man moved a gurney next to the table, and as the woman finished unbuckling the final strap the two of them put their hands on Adam's legs and shoulders. They were preparing to transfer him to the gurney.
Adam suddenly sat up, shoving the man away while grabbing the woman and putting her in a choke hold.
His head was spinning, and he felt dizzy and weak, but he rallied his strength to hold the woman around her neck as tight as he could.
"Where is my family?" Adam managed.
The man had recovered, and was holding his hands out, placating. "Mr. Bolland, just let her go. You're in a secure facility. There are guards right outside that door. All I have to do is call for help and they'll be in here. You're not going anywhere."
Adam suddenly tightened his grip on the woman and she let out a strangled yelp.
"Where is my family?"
The man stopped moving, and glanced at the door. Adam gave the woman's throat a quick squeeze and she yelped.
"If you call for help, I'll crush her throat."
"You're not leaving this facility," the man said. He stood then, put his hands in the pocket of his coat, and said, "So go ahead. Kill her."
Adam was breathing heavy, and thought about doing exactly that. He could do it, he was sure. All it would take was a solid squeeze, without letting up. He could crush her windpipe, or just strangle her.
But he didn't move.
The man looked at the door. "Guards!" he said loudly.
Adam flinched, and turned on the cushioned table top, still holding the woman by the neck.
The door to the corridor opened and two men dressed in fatigues and armored vests came in, automatic weapons raised. They rushed Adam, pointing the barrels of their weapons at his head.
"Let her go and put your
hands on the back of your head!" one of the men shouted.
Involuntarily, Adam felt himself loosening his grip and preparing to comply. There was something about a loud, authoritative voice that made you react, even against your will. Maybe if he hadn't been drugged to the gills, his reaction might have been different, more calculating. As it was, he found himself going slack. And in that moment, one of the soldiers pulled the woman free while another slammed into Adam, forcing him face down on the table while the male doctor injected him with something from a syringe.
It took only seconds for the effects of the drug to kick in, and Adam felt himself drifting again.
They rolled him onto the gurney and strapped him down tight.
"Thank you, gentlemen," the doctor said. "Linda, are you ok?"
"You told him to kill me!" she shouted.
The man laughed. "He wasn't going to do it. Haven't you seen his psyche profile? He's pretty capable, but he's not a killer."
The woman seemed unconvinced as she rubbed her neck.
"Go get checked out," the man said. "The guards and I will escort Mr. Bolland back to his room."
The woman left without a word, and soon the men had the gurney turned and rolling through the same door.
Adam again felt like he couldn't quite focus. He could have drifted off to sleep, and maybe he did from moment to moment. But he also knew that he had to get free. Maybe he could grab one of those guns.
And then what? In the state he was in, he'd never make it out of this place, much less rescue his family. He was trapped here, to be poked and prodded and experimented on at the will of David Priseman and his staff of ghouls and goons. Whatever was happening outside this facility, out in Colorado Springs, was changing all the rules. The world was different now.
The gurney rolled smoothly over the linoleum of the hallway, and Adam struggled to stay awake, to think of some way out of this.
Suddenly there was a loud, sharp sound, and one of the guards went down, falling over Adam's legs. His legs seemed to react as if they weren't a part of his body. He could feel the pressure as they reacted involuntarily to the weight that had fallen over them, but his nerves were unresponsive. He couldn't really feel anything below his waist. He wondered if it he was paralyzed or just working the chemical sedatives out of his body.
