Instinct, p.23
Instinct, page 23
Then we’re back through the plastic curtains. Into the elevator, standing around awkwardly as it glides upward. Neither man says a word to me, but they both steal furtive glances. At me. At each other.
“Oral delivery,” Doc mumbles to Ang, almost childishly excited all of a sudden. “It’s finally working!”
“Yes,” Ang replies. More reserved, this one, but there’s a definite note of pride in his voice. “Though the timing is still an issue.”
“So?” Doc asks. “A simple calculation and—”
“Too fiddly. But that’s a hill to climb another day. Right now the important thing is to verify this version and move on to deployment.”
Verify? They’re not convinced of my compliance, I think. Not yet. Not entirely. Hence the test the woman ordered.
I stare straight ahead, doing my best to ignore them. All I have to do is play it cool and take my chance when it comes.
The elevator lurches to a stop. Ang opens the door.
The others are all there when we emerge, with something like regret in their faces. A look of sadness, almost. The look on Greg’s face in particular fills me with a sudden anger, nearly impossible to tamp down. He’s sorry? Can’t stop? Bullshit. I tense, my fists balled so tight my fingernails start to break the skin of my palms. I want to lash out, but more than that, I realize, I want answers.
Ang misconstrues my sudden rigidness, and speaks calmly into my ear.
“Do not be afraid,” he says. “You’re doing very, very well.” We push through the group, who part like reverent cultists.
“Follow,” Ang says to them, and the reaction is immediate. Movement all around, behind us.
Someone starts to speak, but before the sound can become a word, Doc snaps at them. “No talking!”
The group falls silently in behind us as Doc and Ang guide me down the hallway.
My eyes go immediately to the front door, but before I can even think about making a break for it, Ang steers me in the other direction.
Into the main room of the massive house.
It’s a sunken living room. Bleached hardwood floors, white throw rugs in several places, and sleek modern furniture throughout. A massive flat-screen television is affixed to one wall, currently turned off.
The main feature of the room, though, is the fireplace. It’s right in the center, open on all sides. More like a firepit, really. There is open air above it for perhaps ten feet, then above that a stonework flume is built into the vaulted ceiling, rising twenty feet above us. As for the firepit itself, the surface is a bed of colored glass beads, presumably with burners beneath. There is no flame just now. Surrounding all this is a bench of the same stonework, knee-high.
“Form the circle,” Doc says to those gathered. Not “a circle,” I note, but “the circle.” A chill runs up my arms.
Feet shuffle on the hardwood floor as the group takes their places. Some begin to talk in low voices. There’s a casualness to their response, as if this were all completely normal. Their reaction, I realize, seems to be a manifestation of the tone of Doc’s command, not just the meaning. Interesting.
“No talking!” Ang barks. Then under his breath to Doc, “You have to remind them.”
Doc nods meekly, cowed by the reprimand.
Guiding me by the elbows, the pair lead me across the hardwood floor until we stand next to the firepit.
Fire is not something I’ve ever been especially afraid of, but in this situation, about to undergo some sort of test, my brain suddenly fills with nightmarish scenes. My hand thrust into the flames, skin and muscle boiling away to a sick barbecue odor. Or a red-hot brand, a satanic symbol maybe, sizzling against the skin of my arm. My stomach churns equally to both thoughts, and I bite back a sudden urge to vomit.
“Step up onto the edge, Mary,” Ang says.
Don’t hesitate, I tell myself. They’ll know the commands aren’t working. Just play along, pick your moment, then run.
But his tone, like Doc’s before, is casual, and I bet I can use that. The tone seems to indicate the level of response. No need to rush in my obedience.
I step up onto the stone bench, then again to the thin ledge above it, one deliberate step at a time. Once on the ledge I stare at the firepit in front of me, knowing they’ll turn it on any second now and ask me to… to what, to walk across?
“Turn around,” Doc says.
I do.
The others have all filed in behind us, forming a half circle around a throw rug on the floor below me.
I’m facing them now, which is a hell of a lot better than facing the fireplace in my estimation. Perhaps Ang just wants me to make a speech. Proclaim my loyalty, or repeat some oath. It could be that the punishment for failing the first time is a broken nose.
There’s eight people in all. Doc, Ang, Chief Gorman, Captain Tweaker, and four others I don’t know. Only one of them is a woman, but her expression is no different from the rest.
My gaze returns to one of the men. An older gentleman who looks familiar in the way that all politicians seem to. Could this be the senator they keep referring to? Surprise, surprise, his nose is bandaged, too.
But that’s not all he shares with the others—each has a weapon of some kind. Pistols in belt holsters, or knives, or Tasers. Shit, I think, my plan of making a run for it suddenly quashed. I can’t imagine reaching the front door before one of them can draw and fire.
Only Doc and Ang appear to be unarmed, but that doesn’t help me at all.
With an almost magician-like flourish, Doc leans down and pulls the white rug away, tossing it aside.
He steps back into his place within the half-circle and looks up at me. Between them all, the bleached-white hardwood floor beneath the rug has been revealed. It is not white, here, but stained red.
Stained with blood.
A fresh bead of sweat begins to trickle down my spine.
Ang lifts his chin. With a strong note of pride he says, “Keeping your hands at your side, and making no effort to turn away, fall forward to the floor.”
My eyes lock on that red stain as Ang’s words register. The trail of sweat on my back goes cold, and goose bumps rise all across my body.
Time seems to slow.
This is my moment. I know this, deep down. I have to run. Have to try. Outgunned, outnumbered, it doesn’t matter. I must try.
It’ll never work, though. Running is suicide.
I swallow. Can’t hesitate to obey, but don’t have to hurry, either. Just need to buy time, to think of a way out. I start to lean. Just a bit, like going on tippy toe to see over a crowd. My mind races. How to get out of this? Nothing comes to mind. Every last bit of me wants to turn now, to run, to get away from these fucking weirdos and… and…
I keep leaning forward. Have to sell this. Just need another second to think. So I tilt, giving them what they want to buy myself a precious moment.
Think, Mary, think!
Reach the tipping point. Then put a foot forward, sprint for the door!
Maybe I can make it before one of them can draw.
The floor keeps rising toward me, a little faster now. My toes ache from the pressure my body is exerting. Soon gravity will take hold.
Go for one of their guns? The woman, I think. She’s slight and… her hand is on the butt of the weapon. It wasn’t when Ang gave me the command, but she’s moved it there now. Am I taking too long?
The others have hands on weapons now, too. A flicker of suspicion rippling through them. Doubt entering their curious stares. I keep tilting toward the bloody patch in front of me.
Two thoughts pass through me at once.
I need to get out of this.
And…
There’s no getting out of this.
My body is betraying me, though. Or maybe gravity is. Because my controlled tilt is at the threshold now. The last possible instant where I can stop myself.
And I don’t.
I’m falling. Slow, then fast. Then too fast.
There’s no choice now. It’s going to happen. Have to sell it.
I pour every last shred of conscious effort into keeping my hands at my sides. Every instinct within me says to cushion the blow, to turn away. And I can’t. They’ll know. They’ll kill me. I keep my face forward. Hands flat on my hips. No idea how, but I do.
My toes leave the ledge. Free fall.
Don’t flinch, don’t flinch, don’t flin—
I hit the floor nose first, and for a split second, there’s only the sound of it. The crack of brittle bone, the wet slap of meat and blood. And the grunt that comes, involuntarily, from my lungs.
No pain, though. Not for that split second.
Then it arrives. Like a tidal wave. Like the sudden crack of a gunshot. Bright and searing and absolute.
Pain like fire. Lightning in the mind.
All thought blots out. Anguish instead. I scream. Then I stop. It hurts too much to scream.
Some time passes. I’ve no idea how much. I’ve curled into a ball, hands at my face but not touching my broken nose. Warm blood flows onto my palms. I’m coughing through my mouth. Tears that feel scalding hot well around my eyes.
There’s a strange noise that manages to get through all this. I try to latch on to it, desperate for anything I can mentally anchor to that isn’t the exploded star in the center of my face.
It’s a popping sound, like distant gunfire. Or champagne bottles being opened.
No, not those things. I get it now. It’s applause.
“Welcome,” Mr. Ang says, “to the Broken Nose Gang.”
Something about my nose feels strange. There’s a fuzzy sensation there, as if I’m being tickled by a feather.
This makes me want to sneeze, but I can’t seem to. My head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, like it’s been filled with something warm and numbing.
Pressure on my nose, now. Slight, then gone again, then it’s back. A probing. A blotting.
I open my eyes a little.
Doc leans over me. His hands gloved in blue latex. He holds a cotton ball in metal pincers, dabbing at my face. It comes away stained red.
“She’s waking up,” Ang observes.
“It’s okay,” Doc mumbles. “I gave her a shot of Novocain.”
“Give her more,” someone replies.
“Let me handle dosages, will you?” Doc shoots back. “All of you, relax and be happy we have a new member.”
I glance around, my eyes and my head clearing a little. The rest of the “gang” are in a circle around me, watching. Greg, Tweaker, Ang, and the rest. They look… sad, as if they’ve just witnessed an old friend fall ill.
Ang glances at the lone woman among them. “Proceed with the plan,” he orders her. “This has been a distraction, but we still must be ready.”
She glances at her watch. “They’re expecting me in half an hour, does that still work?”
Ang shakes his head. “Phone them and stall.” He jerks his chin toward me. “She won’t be a problem now, but we still have preparations to make and we’re behind schedule. None of this will matter if the demonstration does not go as planned.”
The woman frowns. “And if he decides to just cancel the order?”
“Give him a discount. Hell, tell him it’s free. He’ll wait if it’s free. Now go load the van, and be ready to leave.”
She nods firmly and disappears from view. Footsteps receding.
“And put your earpiece in!” Ang calls after her. “In fact, all of you put your earpieces in.”
The group complies, instantly. Each retrieves a small object from under their shirt collars and puts it in their right ear. The devices are attached by clear, spiral-shaped cables that disappear under their hair and shirt collars. Just like you see bodyguards wear. Or secret service agents.
“Senator,” Ang says, “you’re with me. The rest of you, go back to your duties.”
He turns and walks away. The older man with the fine silvery head of hair instantly follows.
I try to watch them go, lifting my head from the cold hardwood floor. It’s the wrong time, though, because my nose collides with Doc’s metal pincers.
Novocain or not, my world vanishes into another sizzling white agony.
“O’Doherty’s, Kyle speaking. Oh, hey, yes! Finally! Are you outside? Well fuck, where are you then? You said delivery by six p.m. No, tomorrow’s no good, the event starts tomorrow. I need the beer now. Tonight. Uh-huh. Okay. How late are we talking? I’ve got the whole committee due to arrive any minute and they’re all expecting a sample. Yeah. Okay, okay. Wait, did you say free? Seriously? That’s kick-ass. Thanks! Of course we’ll be here. For free booze? Hell yeah we’ll wait.”
The pain has become a dull throb.
I groan and try to sit, only to find my hands are tied down. “What—”
“I’m here,” a voice says. It’s Greg, in the room with me.
I’m lying down now on a mattress. I can feel the tightness of the bandages across my face. There are other voices, muffled, outside.
I try to open my eyes but can’t see much, they’re too watery.
“Mary,” Greg says. “I’m so sorry about this. I can’t control… well, you know, now. You’re one of us. We do as we’re told.”
I strain to see him, try to blink away the tears. It’s no use. When I try to wipe at my eyes, the straps prevent the gesture.
“Why—” I start to ask.
“Just a precaution. Doc was worried you’d try to touch your nose. He said—”
Suddenly Greg stiffens, eyes on the wall beside me. He nods, as if hearing a voice in his head. The earpiece, I remember.
“Acknowledged: I will get Dr. Ryan,” he says to whomever is on the other side of the line before standing abruptly.
“Wait,” I say, but it’s too late. Greg—the chief of police—my boss—is already out the door.
I’ve no real choice but to lie there and wait for my eyes to clear. When that happens I have to wait more for the room to stop spinning.
My whole head feels heavy and dull. My body lethargic. Medication of some sort. I wonder how long I’ve been out, and what time it is.
When Doc comes in a minute later I’ve already mentally braced myself for more tests. What will they order me to do next? I wonder. Shoot someone? Shoot myself? I’m okay with those, if only so they’ll give me a gun.
But when he sits beside me the first thing he does is undo the straps holding my arms down. Without thinking I begin to rub feeling back into my hands.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
Carefully I swipe the tears from my eyes. “Like I drank a bottle of NyQuil.”
He nods, watching my face carefully. “I’ve given you painkillers, and injected a numbing agent around your nose. It should get you through the worst of it.”
“Thank you,” I say, surprised at how heartfelt it sounds. A silence stretches between us, I suppose as he’s waiting for me to get my senses back. I have to force myself to remember that they think I’m under some kind of spell. But no one’s told me I can’t ask questions. Before they do, I figure I should try.
“What’s all this about, Doc?”
“The test?” he asks. “A crude method, I know, but we needed a foolproof way to make sure the treatment works. And, more to the point, to make sure you weren’t already exposed to the old version.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
He smiles at me, almost fatherly. He’s leaning in and delicately checking the edges of my bandaged face. So close I can smell his lack of cologne, his breath like cheddar cheese. I can see the dandruff in his hair. I want nothing more in that instant than to grab two fistfuls of his gray mane and ram my forehead into his nose. Fair’s fair.
But I don’t do this. I want answers. As long as he’s buying my act I’ve got to keep him talking.
“It’s Ang’s invention,” he says, “and it’s going to change the world.”
I look at him, meeting his gaze and forcing myself to have at least a little of the reverence Doc’s voice holds. “Why isn’t your nose broken?” I ask.
He brightens. “Ah, excellent question! I was one of those affected by version one.”
“Doc, c’mon. I don’t understand what that means.”
Finally he leans back, satisfied my bandages are sufficiently in place. As he slumps against his chair he lets out a long sigh, perhaps debating how much to tell me or, I think, he may just be tired. He looks exhausted.
“It’s like… immunizing someone against a disease. You can’t un-immunize someone.”
“Still not following you.”
His chin falls in frustration. For a moment he casts about, trying to think of words that I’ll understand. Finally he sits upright. “How would you describe me, Mary? You will answer honestly.”
Well, that’s a gift horse I’ll happily ride.
“Socially awkward. Frumpy. Stodgy. Tall and gangly.”
“Okay, I get the—”
“Misshapen. Repulsive. Annoying.”
“That’s quite—”
“Flabby. Weak.”
“Ah,” he says with sudden vigor, snapping his fingers. “There! Finally at the heart of the matter!”
“Excuse me?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“Suppose I told you I used to be in perfect physical condition.”
My eyebrows shoot up involuntarily. Doc sees this, gives a sheepish shrug.
“Ever notice the sticker on the back window of my car?”
“A hundred forty point six,” I mutter, remembering it from the gas station. “That’s like a joke, right? A play on the marathon runner sticker? Like you could really run that far.”
