Invasive Procedures (16 page)

That problem gnawed at him as he sat in his office, staring at the pile of paperwork that demanded his attention. I can’t work like this, he thought. I can’t work under this stress.

So he did the only thing one could do when the rigors of one’s job became too demanding. He went to the golf course.

Eighteen holes has a way of making one’s problems go away, and by day’s end, Director Irving was feeling up again. Which might have been the reason why his guard was down when he returned home that evening. He pulled into his driveway without noticing the strange white van parked at the curb a block away from his house. Such abnormalities typically raised flags of suspicion, but Irving was in too good of a mood to suspect anything.

He took the golf bag from the trunk of his Mercedes and went inside. He set the golf bag by the door and, out of habit, went straight to the refrigerator. It wasn’t until the refrigerator door was closed and the Coca Cola can opened in his hand that he saw the man sitting on his sofa.

Irving dropped the soda and reached for a holster that wasn’t at his hip. Instead his hand found a golf glove protruding slightly from his pocket.

“Director Irving,” George Galen said. “I hope you don’t mind us coming in and making ourselves at home.”

There was motion to Irving’s right, and he spun around to see a man too large to be a normal man. Another one of slightly lesser size now blocked the door.

Galen gestured with his hand. “These are my associates Stone and Lichen. They will not harm you, Director Irving. Nor will 1.1 gather you know who I am.”

“George Galen,” Irving said, pleased at himself for keeping his voice so steady.

Galen got up from the sofa and approached him. “Yes. I am George Galen. But I am more than that as well. I have been for a very long time. I am a prophet.”

Irving felt his muscles tense. In his peripheral vision he saw nothing he could use as a weapon. The only item currently at his disposal was the golf glove, and that would do little against men this size.

“A prophet because I see truth,” Galen said. “A prophet because I see a future for all of us that no one else believes in. No one else but those like
Stone and Lichen here, whose minds are open. To believe in this future requires faith. You’re a man of faith, are you not, Director Irving?”

“What do you want?” Irving said, his hands forming into fists.

“I want you to believe, Director Irving. I want you to have faith. And above all, I want you to be happy.”

Irving felt massive hands pin his arms to his side. A sharp kick to the back of knees sent him to the floor. Then the hands holding him lifted him slightly to a kneeling position.

Galen stepped forward, looked down into Irving’s face, and gently put his hands on the side of Irving’s head. “It would have been better if you had left us alone, Director Irving. As it is, you’re getting in the way. I’m even told that you have a countervirus of your own now. This disappoints me greatly. I can’t have you impede us. Not now. The best part is about to begin.”

At this point, Director Irving suspected that his neck would be snapped or that a gun would be pointed. But no movement to his neck was made and no gun produced. Instead, George Galen did the last thing Director Irving would ever suspect. He licked his lips, bent down, and kissed Irving on the forehead.

Jonathan sat upright in bed and watched the door. It was nearly six in the morning, which meant Dr. Owens would be coming around to check their vitals any minute now. She did so several times a day, and in the tew days since her arrival, Jonathan had grown to savor their encounters.

They weren’t allowed to speak, of course; Lichen had asked that she examine them in silence. But that was probably for the best—if he spoke, he’d only say something stupid. And Dr. Owens seemed the kind of woman who could recognize stupid as soon as she heard it.

No, for Jonathan it was enough just to look at her, to watch her while she checked his temperature, blood pressure, and whatever other crap they wanted to know about him. She had a way about her, he had noticed, a quiet determination that he had never seen in a woman before.

Not that Jonathan had known many women, none that would pay him the time of day, anyway. When you were homeless, other people had a way of pretending you didn’t exist, walking by without looking you in the eye or otherwise acknowledging you. And if their eyes
did
meet yours, they were always filled with disgust and contempt, the look you might give a rat or a cockroach or a steamy bag of trash.

It was a look Jonathan knew all too well. He had seen it often ever since he and Nick had stolen Jonathan’s stepfather’s Plymouth and driven it to California last year.

It had been a dumb thing to do. Both he and Nick knew this, though neither would admit it.

The drive from Alabama had been a long one, and the car hadn’t lasted the trip. They had hitched the rest of the way and arrived in Los Angeles with only a few bucks between them.

Temporary relief came when Nick lied about their ages and got them work on a construction crew. But the foreman fired them the moment he discovered them sleeping in the very houses they were building. After that, things went bad. People pretending to be friends kept showing up. First the drug pushers. Then the pawnshop owner, the one who gave them a crowbar and dropped them off in the rich neighborhoods. Then the drug pushers again.

Liars, all of them.

In fact, liars were the only type of people Jonathan knew. Even Galen had proven to be one. Jonathan wanted to kick himself for being foolish enough to believe that for once he had found a genuine human being, somebody who wasn’t smiling all sweetly on the outside yet plotting something sinister on the inside.

Nick was the exception, of course. He was no liar. Nick was true. Always had been, even when they were kids growing up in the same trailer park Nick had stuck by Jonathan when no one else had.

And now Dr. Owens was another exception. She wasn’t like Galen at all. She was good, clean. She even made Jonathan forget at times how badly he needed a hit, how badly he wanted to scratch himself, to peel the flesh off where the needles had touched him last. And now she was coming again, right on schedule. He could hear her footsteps approaching.

The door opened. It wasn’t Dr. Owens. It was the big guy, Lichen. He walked directly to Jonathan’s bed and spoke quietly so as not to disturb the others, who were all still asleep. “You will come with me, Jonathan.”

“To hell with you,” said Jonathan. He still feared Lichen, but the fear had diminished. Lichen was only dangerous when he had tranquilizer gun in his hand. He hadn’t struck any of them yet and probably wouldn’t.

“You will not disobey the prophet,” Lichen said.

“You can tell the prophet to kiss my little white ass.”

Lichen’s massive hand wrapped around Jonathan’s mouth and he lifted him out of the bed, Jonathan kicked and fought and tried to scream, but it was useless. He was no match for Lichen.

Lichen carried him out into the hall and set him on the floor. “You can walk or I can drag you,” he said.

“Touch me again and it will be the last thing you do.” It sounded ridiculous even to Jonathan, but he felt better for having said it.

“Very well,” said Lichen. He reached down and grabbed Jonathan by the ankle.

“All right. All right. I’m walking. I’m walking. Chill.”

Lichen released him. “This way.” He turned on his heels, and Jonathan begrudgingly followed.

They walked for several minutes in silence, weaving their way through many long corridors of the building. It struck Jonathan as odd that they didn’t encounter anyone. Usually there were people up at this hour.

“Where is everyone?” he said, being sure to keep his voice as casual-sounding as possible; he would not give Lichen the satisfaction of knowing how afraid he was.

“All will be explained to you,” said Lichen, without looking back. “All of your questions will be answered.”

Jonathan grew more anxious with every step. They walked down corridors under construction. They walked past walls of hanging plastic and rooms filled with building supplies. Finally they reached what looked like the wing of a new hospital, although Jonathan knew it
couldn’t
be the wing of a new hospital; they hadn’t left the
old
building. No, this new-looking part was merely the same old, grungy part, only slicked up with bright lights and a few coats of paint. This was Galen, the crazy old man, pretending to be something he wasn’t.
Pretending
to be a hospital. A liar, just like all the other liars.

They passed stacks of open boxes filled with gauze and tubes and medical equipment, all still wrapped in plastic.

“This way,” said Lichen firmly. He had stopped and was looking back at Jonathan.

Without realizing it, Jonathan had stopped at one of the boxes and picked up a bag of syringes—clean, sterile, syringes. He was holding them tightly in his hand and staring at them vacantly when Lichen’s voice had snapped him back to reality. He dropped the syringes back in the box and quickly fell back into step behind Lichen.

“You are foolish to lose your free will to drugs,” said Lichen. “You would be wise to keep your body pure and undefiled.”

Jonathan thought of half a dozen slicing retorts but kept them all to himself.

Lichen pushed open a pair of steel double doors, and Jonathan stepped inside.

It was an operating room. Or so it appeared. Under a pool of light stood three people, all dressed in green scrubs. There was Galen, Yoshida, and Dr. Owens, who looked like she might be crying.

The doctors stood between two gurneys, one empty, one occupied. Jonathan couldn’t see the face of the person lying on the gurney, but whoever it was, he wasn’t moving.

“Welcome, Jonathan,” said Galen. “Don’t be afraid now. Come in. Come in.”

Jonathan felt a light shove from behind as Lichen urged him forward. He stepped into the light and looked up. The operating room was at the bottom of a small arena. On a floor above him, in a wide circle, and behind glass windows, sat at a dozen or so Healers. They all looked down at him like Roman citizens calmly acknowledging the poor sap who would soon be a lion’s meal.

“It’s a big day for you, Jonathan,” said Galen. “A day we’ve been waiting for. You’ll be the first, a sort of trial run to see if this works as well as we all hope it does.”

Jonathan said nothing. Galen was watching him, waiting for a reaction, and Jonathan refused to give him one.

“I know this is a little unfair of us to spring this on you unannounced,” said Galen cheerily, gesturing at the crowd, “but we thought you might run for the hills if we told you about it ahead of time. You’ve been a wily guest, after all. You slept well, I hope?”

Jonathan looked intently at Dr. Owens. Now that he was closer to her he could clearly see the tears in her eyes.

Galen nodded and Jonathan felt Lichen’s strong grip again, this time pinning his arms to his side and lifting him into the air. Lichen carried him to the empty gurney and laid him on his back. Jonathan didn’t resist, even when they restrained him with leather straps.

He turned his head and looked at the man asleep on the gurney beside him. The man lay on his stomach, his head turned to the side facing Jonathan with his eyes closed. Jonathan didn’t know his name, but he recognized him. He was the Healer who had brought Jonathan and the others
food before. He had been wearing all black then. Now he was naked. On the left side of his lower back someone had drawn a dotted line with a black marker. The skin around the black line had been shaven.

“He volunteered,” said Galen, following Jonathan’s gaze. “He knew how important this test would be, so he volunteered. I thought that rather brave.”

Jonathan wasn’t listening. He was looking up at Dr. Owens now, who hovered over him, still crying. She had taken his hand into hers, and Jonathan found her touch warm and soft, exactly as he had imagined it would feel. Even with her cheeks streaked with tears, Monica was beautiful to him—twice his age, maybe, but more a woman than ever he had known.

Or so he had thought.

The last thing he remembered before they put the IV in him was how stupid he had been to believe that someone other than Nick could be his friend. If Dr. Owens was his friend, she would be fighting for him right now, pushing Lichen away and removing the straps that restrained him. But she did nothing, and Jonathan knew this meant that she was only
acting
upset. She
was pretending
to be his friend, even now. Even as they put him to sleep. And that, Jonathan thought, made her the biggest liar of them all.

Curtains opened abruptly and blinding rays of a setting sun fell onto Jonathan’s face. He blinked twice, but his eyes couldn’t focus. He tried to sit up, but a stabbing pain in his stomach put him on his back again.

“Don’t move,” a voice said. “You’ll only hurt yourself. Here, drink this.”

Jonathan felt a hand behind his head and a cup at his lips. He opened his mouth as someone gently poured water inside. It was cold and wet and relieved the aching dryness he suddenly noticed in his throat. When he had his fill he lay back again.

“Now lie still,” the voice said.

Jonathan opened his eyes, and the blurry image before him slowly cleared. Dr. Owens stood beside his bed, a syringe in her hand. She stuck it into a short tube that protruded from his IV and spoke quietly. “This should help with the pain. Just give it a moment.”

“What do you care?” he managed to say, but not nearly as forcefully or angrily as he had hoped.

In seconds, whatever she had given him started working. The pain was subsiding; his head was clearing; he felt awake, energized. He threw back the bedsheet and pulled up his gown, caring little if she saw him undressed. The bandages covered his entire midsection.

“You’ve had surgery,” she said calmly. “You need to rest, but I thought you might like a little sunshine.”

“Where are my clothes?”

She pointed to a stack of clean scrubs on the table. “I can help you dress if you feel up to it, but I wouldn’t suggest you wear pants just yet. The waistline might put unneeded pressure on your wound. How are you feeling?”