The awakening, p.74
The Awakening, page 74
part #1 of Eve Series
Armaan shook his head. “Jason, it’s highly experimental. I mean, it’s still just a theory—”
“It’s worth a shot.”
“We’re talking about shocking her brain, Jason,” Armaan retorted. “And this isn’t some negligible electroconvulsive therapy. These are powerful,
potentially lethal currents. And even if it does activate her gift, there’s no way of knowing if it’ll reverse the damage done to her entire system. Not to
mention, all of the equipment is stored in Dzarnoski’s office, which is
completely locked and secure.”
Jason glanced back at Eve’s room. Countless doctors and nurses were
hovering over her, their faces white and panic-stricken. A horrible fear ran
through Jason’s body, and he turned to Armaan once more.
“Whatever it takes to save her—”
“This could kill her, Jason. You understand that? She could die.”
“SHE’S ALREADY DYING!” Jason barked. “Look, does she have any other
options? Anything?”
Armaan paused. “No.”
“Can you do it?”
Armaan did a double take. “Wait, what?”
“Can you do the treatment?” Jason repeated. “Can you save her?”
“Hold on—”
“If I got the equipment, could you operate it—”
“Dammit, Jason, I’m an assistant, not a doctor!” Armaan hissed.
“This is Eve we’re talking about, Armaan!” Jason spat, his patience waning.
“Do you understand? She’s your friend, and she’s dying.” He leaned in closer, his eyes pleading for cooperation. “Now, let me ask you again: if I got the equipment, could you do it? Can you do the treatment?”
Armaan hesitated. Again he glanced down the corridor, as he could still hear
the muffled commotion coming from Eve’s room. He turned to Jason.
“Yes.”
“Do you think it’ll work?” Jason asked.
“I—” he stuttered, “I don’t know. But it’s the only chance she has.”
“HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!”
Jason groaned. The patrolmen were once again headed his way, and he slowly placed his hands on the back of his head.
“Where’s Dzarnoski’s office, Armaan?” he asked.
“Jason, it’s locked!”
“Just tell me where it is!”
Armaan’s eyes flitted between Jason and the patrolmen. “Fourth floor, down
the corridor, and on the right. Look for the small black box with two white buttons.”
“No more talking,” a patrolman muttered. He yanked at Jason’s arms, clasping
them together with metal cuffs. “Stand still.”
As the soldier dragged Jason down the corridor, Armaan scurried behind
him, stopping only at the insistence of yet another patrolman. He stood on his
toes and peered around the soldier ’s body.
“Jason! There’s one last thing!” he shouted.
Jason glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
“Get a razor!”
Jason wrinkled his brow. “A razor?
“Just trust me!”
“Sit down,” the soldier sneered, plopping Jason into an empty seat at the side of the hallway. Across from him sat Percy, Sancho, and JJ, their wrists
shackled and their heads dipped in defeat. The patrolman glared at the
foursome. “Don’t move, none of you.”
“Goddamn bunch of bastards,” a second patrolman muttered. He pointed at Sancho. “This one lighting the damn hospital on fire.”
They sat in silence. Jason fidgeted in his seat as he gazed down the hall at the
staircase in the distance. Percy glanced between the patrolmen and Jason and cocked his chin at the spot where Armaan once stood.
“What did he say?” he whispered.
“There’s an office on the fourth floor—”
“NO TALKING,” one of the patrolmen growled.
Jason looked at his shackles and then at Percy. “I need to get to that office—”
“I SAID, NO TALKING.”
“You’re all going to jail. You realize that, right?” another patrolman chimed
in. “Police are coming right now to take you into custody.” He scowled at Jason. “And if your girlfriend lives, she’s going to jail, too.”
Jason ignored the patrolman and stared down the hall. Eve’s room was only
a short distance away, but the blinds were now closed. Armaan hovered beside
the door, pressing his ear against its surface, and he looked back at Jason, his
face awash in fear. Anxiously, Jason looked toward the far stairwell and then at
the patrolmen in front of him, each one idly pacing the corridor with a rifle in
his hands.
Finally, Jason turned to Percy, and their eyes locked as if they had come to
the same unspoken conclusion. Sancho observed them skeptically, and as he
realized what was about to ensue, he grabbed JJ’s hand and held it tightly.
Percy subtly cocked his head at the patrolman standing in front of him, and Jason clenched his fists and nodded. With a deep breath, he counted down in his
head:
Three. Two. One.
Suddenly, Percy slammed his foot into the patrolman’s back. The soldier
lurched forward, and Jason kicked at his chin, sending him toppling to the floor. Jason winced; his leg was throbbing, and blood poured from his injured
thigh, but he pushed past the pain and staggered to his feet.
Another patrolman rushed his way, and Jason swung his shackled fists at the
man’s face, punching him once, twice, three times, until a torrent of blood shot
from his nostrils. A third patrolman lunged toward him, and Jason head-butted
the soldier, who fell to the ground with a thud.
Jason turned to Percy, who was fumbling with one of the fallen rifles; he steadied the weapon and fired at Jason’s cuffs, snapping the chain in two, and
without a word, Jason barreled toward the stairwell.
The last patrolman standing sprinted after him, but JJ stuck out her foot and
tripped him, cringing as he smacked face-first to the ground. The soldier
clambered to his knees, growling, but Jason had already fled far down the
hallway.
“WAIT!” he cried. “STOP RIGHT THERE!”
Jason ran even faster, his weak body now infused with adrenaline. A gunshot
sounded behind him, and his entire body jerked forward, but he regained his
footing and continued on ahead. Soon a torturous ache pulsed through his arm, and blood splattered onto the linoleum—he had been shot, the bullet lodged
somewhere in his triceps—but the pain was masked by a tingling numbness,
one that spread from his arm to the gashes on his chest and stomach, to his broken ribs and his thigh, and in that moment he felt stronger than he ever had
before.
With his brow furrowed, he slammed at the stairwell door and bounded up
the steps, moving so swiftly that the world around him became a blur. He
passed the second floor, and then the third, and when he reached the fourth, he
swung open the door and tore down the hallway.
Gasps and cries sounded up and down the hall as patients hurried away from
Jason, but he was too distracted to notice. Armaan’s directions repeated in his
mind, and he sped down the corridors, finally stopping in front of Dzarnoski’s
office door.
He tugged at the handle—the office was locked, as Armaan had said it would
be—and with gritted teeth, he took a step back and threw his body against the
door. A sharp pain ripped through his arm and chest, but the door didn’t give.
Again he hurled himself into the door, and then he kicked at the handle with the
sole of his boot. Jason stumbled away from the door, now gripping his
profusely bleeding arm. He could feel it now—the pain of each and every one
of his wounds, the blood and dirt that clung to his skin, the weakness that he was so unaccustomed to.
But just when he felt himself yielding to his own fragility, he thought of Eve, of her smile and laugh, and then he saw her pale body covered in blood. A potent resilience coursed through him, and he slammed and kicked at the door
over and over until it shook at the hinges. He screamed and roared, reclaiming
his pain as motivation, and at last the door cracked at the latch and swung open,
smacking against the opposite wall with a loud crash.
Jason darted into the office and scanned the space. He rifled through papers
and tore through cabinets, searching for a small black box with two white
buttons. Finally, he spotted it—it was the size of a scratchpad cube except rectangular in shape—and he immediately grabbed it and headed for the door.
Suddenly he stopped himself; he caught sight of an electric razor sitting on the
end table, and again he remembered Armaan’s words. With a shrug, he plucked
the razor from its resting spot, plopped it into his pocket, and barreled out into the hall.
A crowd of people had gathered by the office, gaping at the belligerent
chimera, but Jason plowed past them and headed for the stairwell. He flew
down the steps, his boots pounding against the stairs until he finally reached the ground floor and charged through the hallway once again.
Sancho, JJ, and Percy were still seated in the waiting area, the bloodied
patrolmen now aiming their rifles at them, and Armaan was pacing in front of
Eve’s door, his hands fidgeting nervously at his sides.
“ARMAAN!” Jason shouted.
Armaan spun toward Jason. “Wow,” he breathed. “That was really fast—”
Jason skidded to a halt, nearly stumbling into Armaan, and promptly shoved
the equipment and razor into his hands. He nodded at Eve’s door.
“Get in there. Do the treatment.”
Armaan reached for the handle but stopped himself. “JASON! You’re shot!”
“Armaan…” Jason growled.
“You need a doctor.” He gazed at Jason, his eyes wide with horror. “There’s
a bullet in your arm.”
“Do the treatment, Armaan,” Jason repeated, quietly but firmly. “And please, for the love of God, save her.”
Suddenly, Jason felt something press against the back of his head; it was
hard and narrow, like a metal pipe, and he knew it was the barrel of a gun.
“Don’t move.”
Jason took in a long breath. He stared at Armaan, who was trembling with
fear. Hesitantly, he lifted his hands into the air.
“Step away from your friend, and slowly turn toward me.”
“Jason…” Armaan whimpered.
“It’s okay,” Jason insisted. “We’re okay.”
Jason pivoted in place until the barrel was pointed at the center of his
forehead. He stared at the patrolman, whose lips and chin were dripping with blood, thanks to their earlier brawl. The soldier scowled at Jason and peered over his shoulder at the terrified Armaan.
“Kid,” he barked, “move away from the door.”
“Don’t do it, Armaan,” Jason ordered.
“I said, move away from the door.”
“I’ve got you, Armaan.” Jason lifted his chin. “Stay right where you are.”
“I’m kind of getting conflicting information here, Jason,” Armaan said.
A second soldier joined the group, this one just as unyielding as the first. He
pointed his rifle at Armaan.
“Sir, he’s holding something. Could be a weapon.”
The first patrolman glared at Armaan. “Move away from the door, and hand
over the weapon.”
“Don’t do it,” Jason snapped.
“STOP GIVING HIM ORDERS!”
“Armaan, do you trust me?” Jason asked.
“Um,” Armaan faltered, still eyeing the two soldiers. “Yes?”
“IF YOU RESIST, I WILL BE FORCED TO SHOOT YOU,” the first
patrolman barked.
Jason could feel the blood trickling down his arm and dribbling onto his
boot. He looked back at the soldier, and then at the line of patrolmen now assembling by his side, and while their posture was proud and steady, their eyes revealed their fear.
A muted clamor erupted behind Jason—it was the sound of doctors shouting,
and it was coming from Eve’s room—and again, he turned to face the
patrolman before him, his gaze piercing and severe.
“Look, man, I don’t want to hurt you again, I really don’t.” He walked
forward until the rifle’s barrel was pressed against his forehead. “But I will if I have to.”
The patrolman wavered, and for a moment Jason could feel his gun shaking.
The man bit his lip.
“I’m going to count to three.”
“Oh God, he’s counting to three,” Armaan stuttered. “He’s counting to
three.”
“Whatever you do, Armaan, don’t move until I say so,” Jason instructed.
The patrolman cocked his rifle. “ONE.”
“JASON!” Armaan gasped.
“DON’T MOVE,” Jason repeated.
“TWO—”
Before the soldier could continue, Jason grabbed the rifle barrel and thrust it
forward, pounding it into the soldier ’s nose with a loud crack.
In that instant, a war began—soldiers came at him from every angle, but
Jason stood firm, determined to shield Armaan. He hurled his fist at the nearest
soldier, punching him once in the jaw and again in the throat, and then he melted another patrolman against the wall, sending him flopping onto a row of
chairs. Two more patrolmen dove toward him, and Jason quickly grabbed one
by the shoulders and threw him into his comrade, sending both to the ground in a tangled heap. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another soldier at the end
of the corridor, his rifle cocked and aimed, but Jason melted the weapon from
his grasp and launched it across the room. With a growl, the patrolman bolted
toward him, but Jason slammed his fist into the man’s temple and kicked him in
the gut, sending him staggering backward and toppling to the ground.
Jason pivoted in place just in time to find one last patrolman at his side, his
gun pointed at Armaan. Without hesitation, Jason ripped the weapon from the
soldier ’s hands and smacked him across the face with the rifle’s butt.
Anxiously, Jason eyed his surroundings. The first handful of soldiers were
all reeling at his feet, but even more were now sprinting down the hallway, headed in his direction. He spun toward Armaan, his eyes wide and frantic.
“DO IT!” Jason yelled. “GO, NOW!”
Just as he spoke, the entire horde of patrolmen lunged at Jason, pushing him
to the floor and burying him under the dog-pile. But Jason had done what he needed—he’d cleared the way for Armaan—and through the thick of limbs, he
saw Armaan dart into the hospital room and slam the door behind him.
Armaan stopped beside the doorway, staring in awe at the scene in front of
him. At least ten doctors and nurses congregated around Eve’s body, their
scrubs covered in blood and their faces dripping with sweat. A single doctor hovered over Eve, pressing the electrodes of a defibrillator against her chest.
“Clear!”
The medical team looked on in dismay as their patient convulsed with the energy and then collapsed against the table—still limp, white, and lifeless. The
lead doctor sighed and stared at the cardiac monitor, which displayed nothing
but a flat line and produced a long, drawn-out beep.
“Enough, guys. I’m calling it,” he muttered. “Time of death, seventeen forty-
three.”
A lump formed in Armaan’s throat. He stared at Eve—her eyes peacefully
closed and her face streaked with drying blood—and a surge of determination
swelled within him. He tightened his grip around his small device and shoved
his way through the medical staff.
“What the—?”
“Who the hell is this kid?”
“Will someone remove him?”
Armaan ignored them, fighting his way to the front of the room and
situating himself beside Eve’s body. There was no time to waste, so he moved
quickly, taking advantage of the medical team’s moment of shock. He pulled
Eve’s head to the side and ran the electric razor across her scalp, shaving a large, rounded strip beside her ear.
With trembling hands, he pressed at the two white buttons on his device.
They promptly released themselves from the mechanism, and he situated them
along the bald patch on Eve’s head, where they firmly adhered to her skin. He
tugged at the ends of the black box, expanding it into a large screen, which
projected a holographic image: a dial with various electrical frequencies, an impulse monitor, and a flashing red button.
Hesitantly, Armaan glanced up at the medical staff—they were scuttling
toward him, moving almost in slow motion—and then he spun the dial and
slammed the red button.
A thunderous boom sounded through the space, one so strong that it nearly
knocked Armaan from his feet. Eve’s head lurched forward, and in the same
instant, the doctors and nurses were flung into the air, their bodies thrown to the back of the room as if blown away by a powerful force.
Armaan remained at Eve’s side, his eyes frantically darting between her and
the cardiac monitor, which continued to produce the same long, steady beep.
