by Blou Bryant
Still, the best way to learn about someone was to piss them off and see how they responded. The first guard was reserved, but the second displayed a bravado that likely overlaid insecurity. “You work for the doc? Have you known him long?”
“I don’t work for anyone.”
“Shut up,” said the first guard, and the second quickly turned his head forward.
Wyatt laughed, at which the first guard stopped, turned, and stared at him. “Keep quiet.”
“Or what? Do you want to piss off the doctor?” Esaf was a scary dude, at least the Esaf he remembered.
“He asked for you, we’re bringing you. That’s it, no need for discussion.”
“I can talk. It’s a free world, isn’t it?”
“Not in here it isn’t,” he replied, turned again, and continued walking towards the medical wing.
Wyatt kept talking, but both ignored him, except perhaps to speed up.
When the hall widened, he came even with them, as if the three were out for a stroll. “I thought you weren’t allowed in here, but I keep seeing Prats. How’s that work? Do you get a hall pass?”
The second guard stopped and gave him a shove. “Don’t call us that.”
Wyatt kept his footing, using his back foot to anchor him when the guard leaned into him. He chuckled at the shorter, smaller man. “Prat? Is that a bad word? You know that’s what they call you around here. Means idiot, doesn’t it? Or is it ass? Something like that.”
The guard shoved him again, and Wyatt grabbed one wrist, twisting it down and away from him. “You don’t want….”
The other pushed in-between them, his face to the first guard. “I told you, leave him be. Get back to the barracks and stop fucking around.”
“Praetorian. Like the guards, the elite Roman guards,” said the second, but he turned and stalked down the hall with a huff.
“Let’s go, Mr. Millar,” said the taller guard.
Millar? The guard said it with a grin and a look that said, screw you. Like he wanted me to know he knew. Wyatt kept his mouth shut the rest of the walk, his mind racing.
The guard let him in, checked the one-way mirror and then unlocked the second door.
“You gonna wait for me? In case I get sick and need a hand getting back?”
“Would you like me to wait, sir?” asked the guard, a smile on his face that said he’d happily punch Wyatt, given the chance.
“No, you can go back to your barracks, Prat… I mean, Praetorian,” replied Wyatt, with a grin that he hoped said, ‘screw you,’ right back.
His pulse racing, he stepped into the room to join Esaf. The tall man didn’t look up from the equipment he was working at. That was fine, Wyatt wanted a moment to get his equilibrium back. He felt as if he’d been in danger—or was still in danger. He counted to five, slowly, and put his palm on the reader, unlocked the door and looked out into the antechamber. The Prat was gone.
***
“What the hell?” he asked as the door closed again behind him. “Esaf… what’s with the guards?” How did they know my name?
Finally looking up, the other man shrugged. “I was ready, so I sent them for you.”
He was ready, so he had figured it out. They could talk about the guards and Palna more later. “You’ve got a cure?”
“I have a solution, yes.”
“What about for Teri? Why’s she not here?”
Esaf picked up a glass of water and took a small sip. “You’re different from her.”
“How?” asked Wyatt, walking between the surgical tables to join the former doctor.
“You have a virus. There is no trace of V32 in her system. Once it finished its work altering her DNA, it must have died off. She’s clean now.”
“Is it the same for everyone I’ve infected?”
“I assume so, but until I’ve tested them, I won’t know for sure,” Esaf said, and pointed at a medical recliner next to him. “Have a seat.”
Wyatt sat with trepidation. “How’s this going to work?” he asked, twisting to see Esaf, who was behind him.
A cold hand twisted his head, “Look forward, please.”
“Just antibiotics? Do you have something that can treat me, or will you have to create it?”
Esaf wrapped a leather strap around Wyatt’s head. “Stay still,” he said and pulled another across the jaw, drawing his head tight to the metal frame. “Antibiotics don’t work against viruses. That’s common stupidity.”
“So… do you have a drug? What’s with the head gear?”
“I’m going to put in a small implant that will assist in your recovery.”
“Implant? In my head?”
“Quiet, please.”
Why was everyone telling him to be quiet today? He was about to ask when Esaf jabbed a needle into his upper arm. “What was that?”
“Drugs. Hold still, the implant needs to be precisely placed.”
“What implant?” asked Wyatt. This was happening too fast, and he had no clue what ‘this’ was. His vision blurred—was that the drugs? What were the drugs?
Esaf came around from behind him and picked up a large—and thick—needle. “This won’t take long,” he said, and disappeared again.
Wyatt felt dizzy, and his vision blurred even more. “What did you give me?” he said, or thought he did. It didn’t sound like he’d said anything at all. Were his ears working?
The feel of a damp something on his neck was followed seconds later by a sharp pain at the base of his skull. He cried out. “Jesus, doc, what was that?”
The pain in his skull intensified, but he found himself unable to speak or move. His muscles felt as if they were spasming, but, even with his limited field of vision, he saw his limbs weren’t moving in the slightest. Whatever it was, was all over in seconds and Esaf reappeared, placing the bloody needle on the surgical tray.
“It’s for the best,” the scientist said, absentmindedly. It wasn’t clear if he was talking to Wyatt or himself. “This is necessary.”
“Ugha-heav…” Wyatt said, his tongue not cooperating.
Not even looking at his patient, Esaf made notes on one tablet and checked his computer screen. He grunted appreciatively. “Working perfectly.”
Wyatt’s mind spun as he tried to focus and gain control over his limbs. What are you doing, what’s going on? What’s working perfectly? He wanted to scream, to move, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.
Esaf pulled a headset down over his eyes, blocking out the light of the room. “Give me a moment. I need to calibrate the unit.”
As if I have a choice? Wyatt tried to speak but couldn’t make a single sound.
“You understand,” said Esaf as he removed the headset completely, “that this is for the best for everyone. The virus is too important. It’s more important than any single person.” He dropped the two used needles in a protective bucket, cleaning as he went. “The greatest good, for the greatest number. I believe that. They called me evil, but I’ve never wanted anything but the best.”
Wyatt tried to move an arm, a foot, but nothing worked.
“And the virus is mutating in you. It’ll kill you soon. This is for the best.” With a cold, gloved hand, he opened Wyatt’s shirt and placed two small pads on his chest. “Good, good,” he said, staring at his tablet. “And Teri…” he paused and looked Wyatt in the eye, briefly, and then looked away. “I owe her. I promised her father and mother….”
With a small dropper, he put a drop of liquid in each of Wyatt’s eyes, and then lowered the lids. Without any muscle control, Wyatt was left in the dark.
“I’ll leave the head brace on. That’ll keep you in place until she gets here. It won’t be as bad as you think. It never is,” he said.
Wyatt heard steps and then two knocks. “It’s done, he’s ready.”
The sound of the door opening and closing was the only reply.
Chapter 27
Alone in the dark, his mind raced, vainly trying to understand what had happen
ed. “The virus is mutating,” Esaf had said. “It will kill you soon.” Attempting to move his legs, his arms, even his eyelids, he failed completely. Whatever drug he’d been given had rendered him paralyzed.
Wyatt wanted to scream or weep in frustration at his inability to control his own body. Fear washed over him at his weakness, his vulnerability, his mind locked in a body that wouldn’t respond. The lack of control, the drugs, or a combination of the two pushed him over an edge and he passed out, his brain shutting down.
***
His mother sat at the kitchen table, her crossword book in front of her. She glanced up at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Mom?” he said and hurried around to hug her. The smell of her shampoo and Ivory soap was familiar and comforting.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I’m home,” he replied. It’d been over three years since he’d disappeared, and not once had he called, visited, or even tried to contact her. “I’m sorry for… everything. I worried about you.”
“Oh, honey, that’s life. Parents worry about their kids, kids worry about their parents.”
He sat at the table. “I didn’t ask for this.”
She erased a word. “I don’t blame you.”
“I was told you thought I died.”
“That’s what everybody said. The news came by, they wanted to do interviews, but I knew the truth. A mother knows,” she said.
“I’m in trouble.”
“Uh-huh. Well, you’ll figure a way out. You’ve always had your problems, and you always got through.”
“It’s worse than before.”
“So?” she asked, writing in a word.
“I want to stay.”
“No, you don’t. It’s time to do what you were meant to do.”
In the dream, he closed his eyes. A voice whispered to him, but the words were muffled.
***
A coffee shop, no, a diner, with a cup in front of him. There was a familiarity to it.
Wilbur leaned on the counter, a pot in hand. “Well, didn’t expect to see you so soon.” Blood stained the apron he wore, but it wasn’t his. His eyes wrinkled with humor. “Got nothin’ to say?”
“It’s not real.”
Wilbur shrugged wearily. “Nothing is, and everything is.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means an old man sounds smart when he says mysterious things.”
“So…,” Wyatt said and paused, not knowing how to reply. “You know that I’m so sorry you died. That I got you killed.”
“Wasn’t you.”
Wyatt didn’t agree. If he’d been faster, smarter, Wilbur would still be alive. “Was.”
“Not everythin’s ‘bout you. Man shot me, killed me. You were jus’ there. Not your fault.”
“Yeah, but…”
“But what? No buts about it. Can’t take blame for things others do.”
Wyatt shook his head. He felt like he was underwater. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
Wilbur turned for a moment and came back with a piece of white cake with red frosting. “Cake?” he asked and set out a fork on top of a napkin.
“I have things to do,” said Wyatt. “But I don’t remember what they are.”
“Remember means you already know. Have some cake.”
“Why? Shouldn’t I be doing something, be somewhere?”
“Can you stop feeling sorry for yourself long enough to be there and do something? Boys complain too much.”
“Complain?” asked Wyatt, taking a slice off the cake. It melted in his mouth, buttery and rich. “Oh,” he said.
“Yes… whining. Who gets given the gifts you’ve got and mopes?”
“It’s not the world, not the life I expected.”
“Never is.”
Thinking about that, Wyatt took two more mouthfuls of cake. Voices spoke to him, but the words were indistinct smoke. “Why am I here?”
Wilbur shrugged. “That’s for you to figure out. Perhaps it’s for the cake. Man needs energy to do what he’s got to do.”
Wyatt took a sip of the coffee and almost choked at the taste of bitter alcohol. “God, Wilbur. Do you spike everything you serve?” he asked.
“Only when needed. And you’ve got a need. Hard times comin’.”
“Coming? They’re already here; the last four years have been hell.”
“See, there you go, whining like a beaten dog again. You got friends. You had roofs over your head and hot meals in your belly. Everything else dun matter if you got all that.”
Wyatt pushed the plate with a half-eaten cake back from him.
“Good. There’ll always be time to eat cake later.”
More voices intruded. Wilbur looked at him with sympathetic eyes and the diner faded.
***
A hallway, black clad Prats lined up, automatic weapons in hand. Seen through the fishbowl lens.
“Where’s Wyatt?” asked Ira.
“I’m trying,” said Ari.
Teri sat behind them, the living room filled with panicked Dogs. Only Teri remained calm. She was on a stool in the kitchen, kicking her legs out, her starry eyes staring at him.
He signed to her, “Can you see me?”
She signed back that she could.
“I think something’s wrong?”
Teri shrugged. “You tell me.”
He didn’t know what was going on. Something had happened, but he couldn’t remember what it was. “I think something’s wrong.”
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
“I want to sleep. I’m tired,” he signed. He realized that he was signing without any difficulty. “Hey, I can sign okay now.”
She laughed.
Ari was behind him now. “I can’t sense him.”
“Is he dead?” asked Ira.
“No, I’m not,” Wyatt said, turning to his friend. “I saw Wilbur.”
She ignored him, alternating between looking out the peep hole of the door and gesturing to Ari. “We can’t fight them,” she said. “There’s too many, and they’re armed.”
That didn’t sound like Ira. Nothing scared her. “What’s going on?” Wyatt signed to Teri.
She shrugged. “It’s time for you to go.”
“And do what?” he asked. He didn’t know where he should go. “This is a dream.”
Teri shrugged again, a placid smile on her face, appearing as relaxed as if at home, safe and sound.
“Everyone, put your hands up, and don’t resist,” someone said. “I’m going to let them in. Better than them breaking the door down.”
Around the room, the people he’d altered over the years replied, confusion and fear on their faces. With a resigned look, Ira yelled out, “We’re opening the door, we’re not armed. Don’t shoot.” With a deep sigh, she opened the door.
Wyatt moved out of the way as armed Prats stormed the room, yelling—screaming—at the Dogs to get on the floor, to not resist. As people complied, their hands were tied behind their backs, one by one.
Teri looked at him with those expressive star-eyes. Her hands over her head, she didn’t sign, but simply said, “Choose.”
Darkness.
***
Wyatt remembered where he was. Esaf had drugged him, left him locked in a chair, unable to move. He’d said Wyatt would die soon, that the virus would kill him. He’d said ‘she’ would be here soon, it’d all be over.
Locked in his body, trapped within his own darkness, Wyatt swore that it wouldn’t happen.
One. Count it out, one. He took a deep breath, and despite his immobility, thought he felt it fill his lungs. Of course, the drug wouldn’t stop automatic functions. Did he really feel it fill his lungs, or was it just his mind playing tricks?
Two, count it out. That always helped. He’d learned to meditate, to control himself and his body through counting, through breathing. It was what made him the athlete he’d been. Breathe. He breathed to reassure himself th
at he was alive.
Three, keep going, keep counting. He was locked inside himself, but he was still him, still there and still alive. As long as he was alive, he had hope. Could he sense anything? His eyelids wouldn’t open. What was outside, was he alone? Breathe.
Four, his mind was still his, was still alive and active. Could he sense anything? His toes, calves, thighs… none responded. There was no feeling, no sensation. Groin, stomach, arms and chest. Nothing. Shoulders, neck, and head… eyes, nose, no sensation, no feeling, no connection. But he was alive.
Five, that was the number, that was his special number. It was where he ended his meditations, where he stopped his breathing, his internal inspections. Nothing. He was a mind locked in a disconnected body.
A wave of fear washed over him, and he struggled to control himself. He’d passed out before, he remembered that. And dreamed, he remembered them too. But there wasn’t time for that. Dream Wilbur had told him to stop whining, so he did, forcing his mind to bend to his will. I won’t pass out again. I won’t allow it. I control me.
One. He started over. He was alive, he knew that much, his mind worked, I think, therefore I am.
Two, he continued. Breath. Could he feel it coming in and out? Wyatt thought he could.
Three. I’m in control of me. I’m alive. Blood pumped through his veins. Could he feel it? He tried to sense his blood moving, but there was nothing. Still, it must be pumping, his heart must be working, because he was thinking, he was alive.
The virus was there, but it wasn’t an alien intruder, it was part of him.
Four, his senses worked, he knew he could hear because he’d heard when Esaf had left. There had been a knock, and the sound of a door opening and closing. And he’d heard nothing since, so he was still alone, alone with a body that wouldn’t respond.
Five, that’s it, it’s gotta be it. How can I control myself, how can I force my will onto myself? With a deep breath that his body either did or didn’t take, he meditated, forcing his mind to consider the body it lived within. As if in a deprivation chamber, there was no external stimulus, nothing to distract from his drive to control his own body.
Five, he repeated, the virus was still there, like all the other automatic functions, still working on him, still part of him. Not something alien. It’d been with him for years now, it was part of him now. And it was evolving, but evolving within him. Esaf had once said that if that happened, it’d spiral out of control. Today he said Wyatt would die soon. But it wasn’t the same virus; it had evolved with him.
