My opinion of Thecla had been smudged over the course of the last day, but one of her quirks I still held in high regard—like few other people I'd known, she had been highly organized. Counting on that to also hold up where clandestine experiments were concerned, I walked over to the binder that held the protocol of the viral stocks. The sheets were all manually filled in and often updated, whenever someone removed or added something to the tanks, but virtually indecipherable for anyone not knowing what to look for.
I'd not just worked in Particle Production and Processing, thus becoming innately acquainted with anything anyone wanted to handle down here, but also as her right hand, intimately familiar with her abbreviations and cataloging systems. It took me less than forty seconds to find the section in a box in tank five that I was looking for. Thirty-five vials out of the hundred stored in the third box from the bottom were labeled with the abbreviations Raleigh had used in his review paper of their experiments—and evenly distributed among them seven more that held the “XLC” moniker Nate had been talking about, four with a thirty-four, three with a twenty-two attached.
Bingo.
I didn't bother with hooking up an air hose to my suit as I walked across the room to where the tanks were lined up against the wall. The air depot inside my suit would last me another couple of minutes—even with a steady stream leaving through the tear in the glove—and time was of the essence right now. What I did bother with was donning a pair of thick, padded gloves we always used for getting anything in or out of the tanks.
Tank five was partly hidden between four and seven, so I had to pull them aside first to get to my prize. The lid came off with some brute strength, a cloud of frozen air greeting me. I forced myself to slow down as I reached for the metal handle of the rack that held the boxes suspended in liquid nitrogen.
Moving slowly, I pulled the rack out, making sure to tilt it so that the liquid that had run in between the boxes could go right back into the tank, and not slosh all over me instead. Even through the thick, hot suit and gloves, I felt the cold radiating from the tank and rack.
Once I had hoisted the metal contraption that held the compartments out completely, I put the bottom onto the rim of the tank and pulled out the box I was looking for. Through the see-through container top, I could just get a glimpse of the right vial designation inside before the box hazed over.
More out of habit than thought, I carefully put the rack back into the tank, but left it open as I turned around and started my trek out of the vault and over to Biomolecule Production—not because it was the lab I was most familiar with, but because it was the closest.
The explosive charges plastered to the wall right opposite of the biosafety cabinet were ominous at my back as I pushed the box inside, then turned on the hood for good measure. Working under sterile conditions was no longer of any concern, but the directed airflow might help keep what I intended to do now to a lower risk.
Of course there were protocols for how to handle liquid and solid waste in the hot lab, but all of that involved hours of well-calibrated machines working under ideal conditions, and I had no idea when Nate planned to blow the lab up exactly. Simply putting the box into the autoclave had been my first impulse, but the machine might actually shield the contents and vaporize the still frozen virus without inactivating it first. This was one thing I really didn't need free in aerosol form if the explosions damaged the banks of HEPA filters that kept the lab air from contaminating the outside world.
So hands-on decontamination it was, even if the thought alone made the skin on my entire body crawl.
I didn't hesitate long but simply walked over to one of the supply cabinets and got out two open containers and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Back at the hood, I put everything inside and finally hooked up to one of the air hoses, just to shut up the voice clamoring inside of my head. Sitting down gingerly, I made sure that I had enough freedom of movement, then shucked the thick freezer gloves and went to work.
Pouring hydrogen peroxide into the two containers went well enough, but my right hand shook so badly that I dropped the pipette twice before I got a good grip on it. With the ruptured glove, everything inside of me screamed for me to keep that hand as far away from the vials as possible, but I was used to handling the pipette with my right and vials with my left, and now was not the time for experimentation.
Taking another shaky, supposedly steadying breath, I pushed the lid off the box, then took out the first vial of the seventh row, marked in handwriting I wasn't familiar with—Raleigh's most likely. Using careful, deliberate motions, I one-handedly unscrewed the cap, then dropped hydrogen peroxide inside until the meniscus of the liquid reached the upper rim. Then I dumped the vial into the second container, refilled the pipette tip from the other, and reached for the second vial.
I doubted that I inhaled more than five times until I had put all the opened, topped-up vials into the other container.
Allowing myself a moment to ease up but not completely lose it, I pushed my chair back and got up, leaving the open containers where they were but taking the box with me into the vault. It was probably stupid to put it back where it belonged, but that would keep the other virus stocks frozen solid, at least for a while. Back outside, I picked up three of the four explosive packs as carefully as I could, and brought them into the vault one by one, to rest at the foot of the tanks now. The last one I deposited inside the still running hood, right next to the container with the now flushed-out vials.
Without hesitating another second, I walked out of the lab, across the main corridor, and into the shower, then hit the button inside to immediately unleash the torrent of chemicals onto me.
The first ten seconds I felt as if an immense weight had been lifted off me, making me light-headed and almost giddy. Then reality caught up with me.
I'd just handled a virus that, as far as I knew, had killed everyone it had come in contact with. Inside a hood that hadn't been sterilized beforehand, that needed a good fifteen minutes for the airflow to stabilize, with my outer glove torn.
Sure, nitrile gloves were also used when handling highly carcinogenic substances like ethidium bromide for DNA tagging in gel electrophoresis because they were durable and virtually impervious to most substances, but I couldn't remember how they'd do with hydrogen peroxide, and all the intellectual reassurance in the world couldn't help me right now. Looking at my left hand, I forced my fingers to splay apart, then started rubbing at them vigorously, as if that could do anything helpful.
The eight minutes until the water shut off were the longest in my life, which, under different circumstances, might have cracked me the hell up, seeing as they came seamlessly after the shortest ten minutes I'd ever whizzed through.
The sign by the door went green just as the last droplets rained down on me, and I was out of the shower before I could even consciously will my muscles into action. I barely noticed the discarded blue suit on the floor next to the hulking, scrub-clad figure waiting for me in the next room before I started tearing my own suit off, already staggering to the sink and engaging the sanitizer flow before I’d completely stepped out of it. My motions were so frantic that I almost didn't get the gloves and tape off. I kept on scrubbing until my skin was a bright, vivid red.
“You have sixty seconds to explain to me what exactly you just did, or I swear, I will make you rue every single of those twenty minutes until your last breath.”
His voice came from much too close to me, and it was so full of anger that it was only a hint away from a gravelly growl, but right then I didn't give a shit.
His words made me go still, inside and out, and the first deliberate thing I did was shut off the sanitizer and switch to normal water to rinse off the chemicals that would likely eat away all flesh until only the bones of my hand remained if I kept going like that.
The next thing I did was turn around, which put me face to face with Nate as he was hovering right behind me, our bodies only inches apart. His eyes were nar
rowed, the look in them livid, and in turn I felt my own rage, fueled by fear and a little elation, rise.
“Forty seconds left,” he ground out. I could feel his warm breath fan over my sweat-soaked face.
“What I did, you want to know?” I started, a little proud of myself that my voice only shook half as much as I'd anticipated, and was a lot stronger than a previously strangulee’s had a right to be. “I did your fucking job for you, that's what I did.”
He leaned closer until I could feel the heat radiating off his body, but we still weren't touching.
“I'm not screwing around with you. Just because I've mostly treated you humanely before doesn't mean that has to go on. Thirty seconds. What the fuck did you do?”
Part of me wanted to just square my jaw and wait in silence, but self-preservation kicked in before three seconds had passed.
“I went into the vault, found the stocks of the different generations of the experiment Raleigh and Thecla used, including the initial viral stocks, and dumped them into hydrogen peroxide. One of the explosive packs is resting right next to that container, so when they all detonate, there will be nothing left of the virus. I can't guarantee that we won't cause a massive outbreak of all kinds of viruses if we blow up the lab and the containment shell, but at least nothing of what might escape outside will be the virus that killed your brother.” Stopping to take a deep breath, I moved even closer until my knees bumped into his shins. “You're welcome.”
He kept staring into my eyes without blinking, and several muscles jumped in his cheek and jaw as he gnashed his teeth. I didn't know what to expect, but the prospect of finding a sudden and violent end right where I stood wasn't so frightening anymore. I'd just done the single most stupid thing in my entire life, and nothing in the world could make me regret it now.
Five seconds turned into ten, and it became apparent that his set time limit for my explanation had passed without him losing it. He still looked incredibly angry, but some of the fierceness left his posture, and after another moment or two he relaxed a little, although that still left me with not enough space to breathe freely.
Suddenly I felt increasingly tired of all this shit, though the anger churning in the pit of my stomach hadn't dissipated yet.
“If you don't mind, I'd like to take a shower now.” Not waiting for his reply, I eased myself out from between him and the sink, angling for the showers. He didn't make a grab for me but followed right on my heels, positioning himself in front of the closed door while I started shedding my clothes in the opposite corner. Unhindered, I stepped into the cool spray of the water.
The last two times that I'd been forced to shower in front of him, I'd done it with my back turned and my shoulders hunched, trying to minimize what he could see of me. Now, I frankly didn't care anymore. Whatever there had been between us—still was and might yet come—I was done acting like a scared little shit.
That indifference was shaken in its foundations when I opened my eyes after submerging my head fully in the stream of water, and found his face right in front of mine. I inhaled sharply and instinctively shied back, incidentally shutting off the shower when I bumped into the faucet. He copied me and moved forward, then put his hands against the shower tile left and right of my head, practically forming a cage around me with his body.
I tried to tell myself that I was not intimidated by this, and did my very best to appear anything but self-conscious, but it was incredibly hard. That he'd gotten rid of his scrubs and underwear in the meantime didn't help.
“Why?” he asked, as if the last minutes of silence hadn't happened between us, his voice deceptively calm.
For some reason, his insolence made my temper flare, letting me almost forget to be frightened out of my wits.
“Why? You drag me through hell and back, and then you have the audacity to ask me why?” I shouted, feeling on some level validated when my spittle landed on his chin. He made a face but didn't flinch, nor moved to wipe it off.
“Yes, I want to know why, and you better—”
“Stop threatening me!” I interrupted him, then punched my fists up and forward, hitting him—not quite efficiently—in the torso. Of course he didn't budge, but the outburst alone made me feel a little more grounded. “Ever since you walked into the fucking atrium I did nothing to defy or anger you, and you keep dumping more and more shit on me! I'm done with that! You wanted my help, now you got it. Either be grateful or not, I don't give a shit. But leave me the fuck alone!”
My tantrum had no effect on him, except to paint a lazy smile onto his face once I shut up. I yearned to slap that right off, but the angle between us made that move impossible, so I didn't even try. Plus, I simply didn’t trust myself with touching him again, because physical violence wasn’t the only thing the adrenaline pumping through my veins was screaming for.
“Because asking you for an answer yields such productive results?” he jeered.
“You'd be surprised if you tried, but I bet it hasn't even occurred to you to ask!” I shot back.
Nate kept grinning, pretty much confirming my accusation as true. Unable to contain my fury any longer, I lashed out again. This time I must have gotten lucky because he let out a low grunt and moved back slightly, giving me just enough room to duck out from under the cage of his body. I didn't go far, though, seeing as the shower room wasn't that large, and I only needed enough space to breathe. Then I rounded on him, angrier than before, if that was even possible.
“Plausible deniability, my ass! Nothing you did in the last fifteen hours or thirty-eight days had anything to do with me. You have no regard for my physical or emotional well-being, so at least do me the favor of being honest with me! You're just using me, like everyone else! Shit, I'm so sick of this!”
During my tirade he'd turned around, then leaned casually against the wall, that insufferable look still on his face. And, quite obviously, mocking amusement wasn't the only thing he was feeling toward me. I tried to avert my gaze, but the intent alone drove my temper into an even hotter frenzy, turning my shaky inhales into loud pants.
“And, of course, now you have a fucking hard-on. Isn't that just perfect?”
His smile split into a grin, and I think I would have tried to physically hurt him if he'd thrust his hips forward or some shit now, but he refrained.
“A natural reaction I can't really control. Nothing to be upset about. You should be familiar with it by now.”
“I'm not upset!” I screamed, then turned to the side and punched the tiled wall as hard as I could. Pain flared through the knuckles of my right hand, but it did absolutely nothing to calm me down. “I'm not upset about your fucking hard-on,” I tried to amend, not much calmer while I shook my hand out. “I frankly don't give a shit about what fucked-up thing your body does or not!”
Clearly I couldn't win, as my continuing tirade just kept raising his… mood.
“You are aware that every time you say 'fuck,' my libido gets this extra little incentive to stay up? Among other things.”
“I don't fucking care!” I shouted back, then, because I just couldn't get a handle on my frustration—“Fuck!”
His laugh might have been a nice sound under different circumstances, but now it just kept driving me insane.
“You know, of all the things that happened to you since I handed you that cup of coffee, I didn't expect you to lose it over my dick.”
He continued to laugh—clearly at me, not with me—fanning the flames of my frustration even more. My entire body was tense and quivered with rage, and if I'd thought myself capable, I would have wrenched one of the soap dispensers from the wall and hurled it at him.
“I am not—” I started, then gave up. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”
“That's really helpful,” he supplied, but at least toned it down to a wide, typically male grin. I ground my teeth, not ready to accept that as a victory.
“Why do you even—” I began anew, then gestured in the general vicinity of his genital
s to limit the amount of f-bombs I could possibly drop in five minutes. “Are you really that screwed in the head that the sight of a beaten and bruised body gets you going?”
I wondered in passing if I'd simply missed that reaction the last two times he'd seen me without clothes, but it would have been impossible to ignore after our first trip through this room, and while I might have been otherwise occupied scrubbing fecal matter out of my hair, I was a hundred percent sure that he hadn't looked at me like that after the shit with Greene had gone down.
Nate snorted, and I kind of welcomed the derision leaking into his voice.
“Trust me, neither physical nor mental abuse is stimulating to me in any way. But you just did the single bravest thing in your life, on top of standing up to me. I can't help but salute you.”
“Gee, thanks,” I huffed, but had to admit that his reply mollified me. Not completely, but coming from him in particular, that was a fucking huge compliment. And while he was obviously still out to bait me, I could tell that he really meant it. Which just opened another can of worms, one I really would have loved to keep shut right now. His words—his praise—shouldn’t have meant anything to me, but they did.
I felt my stomach drop as fear zinged right through my dissipating anger, but this time I didn't allow myself to give in to it. Breathing deeply, I kept staring at Nate across the room, trying to somehow even out my chaotic emotions.
“Still wanna know why I did it?” I asked. He inclined his head, a look of seriousness on his face now. “I did it because I had to. Sure, I could say that it was the safest thing to do because this way I've made sure that nothing of that virus will remain intact whatever happens to the lab around it, but that's not the whole truth.”
The Green Fields Series Box Set: Books 1-3 Page 23
