Liquid Death (The Edinön Trilogy Book 1) (11 page)

              “No,” Alice cried, running toward me. “Jim...” Her pleas were brought to an end by the sound of gunfire. Alice dropped to the floor in a pool of blood.

              I heard a scream – my own blood-curdling scream – and felt warm, wet stickiness on my hands as I knelt beside Alice's crumpled form to revive her. I took a piece of glass from the vase Jim had knocked off the coffee table and raised it over my forearm.

              I hesitated and listened to the pounding rhythm of my heart in my ears. Alice only had a few more seconds. I could do this.

              But the longer I stared at the sharp edge of the glass, the more I began to realize how pathetically weak I was. Flashes of similar memories with my father resurfaced, and following another piercing scream, I relinquished the glass and watched it clatter to the floor beside Alice's body. A storm of terror raged in my throat and eyes. Tears rained on the bloody floor… until Jim whacked the back of my head with the butt of his gun.

              “I am going to ask you one more time.” Doctor L paces the room in her lavender suit. I am secured to a chair with spiky chains that gouge the flesh of my neck, waist, wrists, knees, and ankles. The room is lit by L’s fury and a single swinging lightbulb overhead. Sitting behind her: Doctor B and Doctor M with clipboards and torture triggers in their laps. “What are you, Kandi?”

              I have to give Doctor L some credit. She is very persistent.

              She signals Doctor B, and I am electrocuted a third time. My breaths come in ragged bursts as my body gradually repairs itself.

              “Where did you come from? Are there more of you?”

              Flame escapes my mouth; I smack my lips together.
Take your time, Leyla.

              More electricity spikes up my spine, locking my jaw, scalding and benumbing my skin simultaneously.

              “I know you can speak, Kandi! I will let you go once I know the truth. Just tell me what you are. It is
that
simple.”

             
You are more gifted than you realize. Many people will want to use your gifts for nefarious purposes, but you cannot let them. Our survival depends on you keeping your true identity a secret.

              I am dying for some Theratocin.

***

The Death Sentence

              Apr. 21, 2017

                           
The Dark Room is a very effective form
of punishment. I am going crazy. The darkness is so permanent I wouldn’t recognize light if it shined directly in my face. At least this straitjacket is keeping me warm.

              What’s more punitive is the graphic scene I witnessed three days ago in Room
100
E
, before I lost my mind and nearly killed Kyle, playing and replaying in my head. Not since my father had I been so willing to take a man’s life in defense of a helpless woman. How could such abhorrent behavior be permitted here? Why was Kyle alone with her?

              It has taken me three months to find Kandi’s room. Now the staff has likely moved her to a new room, and I must repeat the process. This time, I will conjure a better plan – a plan that does not land me in a worse situation than before.

              I am going to save Kandi. And murder Kyle.

              I wake up to a click followed by a blinding beam of light as the thick steel door is thrust ajar. Doctor Eddington, or Doctor A, sashays toward me, twirling a key ring around her finger.

              “How is Mr. Sunshine today?” she inquires sultrily as she stabs my neck with a long needle. A tangible fog wafts over my brain. She unchains me from the wall and motions for two robust male nurses to place me on a stretcher.

              “Where are you taking me?” I attempt to ask with a swollen tongue.

              Eddington’s dark blue eyes stare down at me. “Doctor B, darling.”

              Wait – Doctor B? The torture doc? I try to combat the fog, but the more I fight, the more impenetrable it feels. My body involuntarily slackens. “Please.” My weepy susurration slips unheeded.

              The nurses wheel me through impossibly bright hallways, then between plastic shutters into a gray area with a single round curtain and silver trays holding a vast variety of surgical implements. My cognizance steadily fades…

              “This is Patient 108?”

              “Yes, Doctor. L has ordered a complete amputation of his upper extremities.”

              I grapple desperately for a hidden arsenal of energy in my system.
Amputation? Heck, no!
I groan and test the weight of my tongue. I attempt to wiggle my fingers and toes, panicking when I cannot feel them at all.

              While the Doctors and nurses continue conversing, I breathe to remain calm. The drug will wear off. It usually loses its full effect within five to fifteen minutes. I
cannot
lose my arms! I must find a way out! My eyes rove my surroundings in search of a solution.

              With a little supplementary will, a faint, tingly sensation manifests in my fingers. I concentrate on the tingling and grunt with the effort of moving my pinky finger.

              “Place the mask on him. He’s regaining mobility.”

             
Mind over matter.
I snap the cuffs binding me to the stretcher and crush the wrist shifting toward my face. Doctor Eddington screams, and utter chaos ensues. The Doctors and nurses lunge at me with knives and syringes, and I am barely conscious of it. My body moves on its own, breaking whatever bones it finds until my torso is completely shredded, and my legs completely useless.

              “Stop the surgery!” someone at the entrance commands. “This procedure was not authorized!”

              “Sir, we received orders from...”

              “Doctor L?”
Scoff. Sigh.
“Stitch this boy up. He is a valuable subject.”

              “Sir, his powers are growing. Soon we won’t be able to sedate him. We must take precautionary measures.”

              I groan and roll my head to obtain a clearer view of my savior. A hazy, dark figure is all I can make out.

              “Zidivin will hold him until the trials are complete.”

              “Yes, sir.”             

             
Aahhh
.

***

              Someone flicks my forehead.

              “Hey, dude! Wake up!”

              I crack an eye open. A skeletal face framed by dark brown dreadlocks grins triumphantly, displaying yellowed teeth. My arid lips part, and a croak escapes. I feel like I’m waking up in a freezer six months after perishing in the Sahara. My skin is brittle and covered in ice. “Brock?” I whisper, 98 percent positive I am hallucinating.

              “That’s right. You share a room with me now. Pretty cool, huh?” He distances himself from my face, his eyes casually igniting in flame.

              I sit up and observe my surroundings. We share a small space – a padded room about fifteen feet long and ten feet wide – with no beds, just bedding, and a toilet and sink in the corner. Terrific.

              “So? What do you think?” Brock questions anxiously.

              I frown critically. “I suppose it’s an improvement.” Our previous shared accommodations had indeed been less agreeable. At least now we have a toilet.

              “Yeah, it’s pretty freaking great!” He laughs and purposefully bangs his head against the wall. “It’s soft, ha ha!”

              If an outsider were to tour this facility and meet only Brock, they would be convinced Blue Skys is a mental hospital. He is certifiably nuts. He watched his parents burn to death when he was only six, and has since been obsessed with and aroused by fire. He is currently my only friend. I flimsily pat the wall. “Yep, it sure is.”

              He squats on the floor like a monkey. “I am glad you’re back, 108. This place isn’t the same without you.”

              “Sorry, buddy.” I smile slyly. “But guess what?”

              “What?” Brock must be at least twenty-one now. He still looks thirty years older.

              “Guess.”

              His eyes illuminate. “Okay, okay! Um…” He puts his finger to his lips. “You… tried spinach, and you
liked
it?”

              I shake my head. “Nope. Try again.”

              His breaths accelerate. “You can control fire too?”

              “Strike two.”

              He laughs and throws up his hands. “I give up! Tell me!”

              I scoot my body against the wall and sigh, my eyelids sagging with exhaustion. “I met Patient 1. She is here, in Blue Skys.”

              Brock’s jaw drops. “You’re joking.”

              “No. It’s true.”

              A tray of food and water abruptly slides under the door. My roommate ignores it. “What was she like?”

              I sniff and wipe my eyes. “She was,” I smile, “a little different than I expected.”

              “How so?”

              “First, I have some questions for you,” I tell him, reaching for the tray and pulling it between us. “Do you know Kyle Smith?”

              “Doctor K? Yeah.”

              Holy crap. Kyle is a
Doctor
? “What have you heard about him?”

              Brock is the head of Blue Skys’ rumor mill, since he is the oldest Patient and has survived here the longest. He hasn’t seen the outside world in six years. No wonder he’s insane. “He is a newbie… a recent Columbia University graduate, and he is Doctor B’s son, I believe.” He ponders it further, then nods affirmatively.

              I puff my cheeks and blow, “Wow.”

              Brock tilts his head. “Why are you asking about him?”

              “No reason. I have more questions.” I hold my stomach and wince while I snatch up a cup of water. My stitches are incredibly tender. “What do you know about Kandi’s powers?”

              Brock devours one of the burritos in a single bite. He pauses to chew and swallow. “Rumor is she’s a jack-of-all-trades.” He shrugs. “But no one knows for sure. Not even the Doctors. Since her family died, she has been mysteriously silent.”

              Eliza said something similar. Nobody knows who or what Kandi is. “What do you know about her father?”

              “Not much. Just that he’s a psychopath.” He passes the remaining burrito to me.

              “Thanks.” I rend the side with my teeth. “Did he ever work here?” According to a few articles I found in Kandi’s file, Jeremy Levinson was a known associate of Doctor Hendricks’, though his involvement in her affairs is pure speculation on my part. Obviously they were close; otherwise Doctor Hendricks would not be so involved in Kandi’s “treatment.” I
assume
Jeremy conducted business deals with my father to fund Blue Skys for his daughter, but I could be wrong.

              Brock nods. “Yes, he’s Doctor J.”

              Uh, oh. I’m beginning to notice a pattern, here. Jeremy = Doctor J, Leyla = Doctor L, Kyle = Doctor K… Are there only twenty-six Doctors employed at Blue Skys, or do they have to get creative with titles like Doctor A1 or B6?

              Back to the current topic: “Did you know he recently broke out of prison?”

              Brock narrows his eyes. “Again?”

              “He’s escaped before?”

              He laughs. “Yeah, like almost four years ago.”

              “How was he caught?”

              “He wasn’t. He turned himself in after his trip to San Diego. Doctor L authorized it. I think A and B were among the Doctors who accompanied him.”

              San Diego? Four years ago? When my strength started inexplicably increasing? Life is full of strange coincidences! Why didn’t the Doctors take me back to Utah with them? Why did they wait two years to unjustly imprison me? Did they know I would eventually kill my father? Were they simply waiting for the perfect moment to strike? Why would Jeremy turn himself in? Why would he escape again? What is he planning
now
?

              “Done with your annoying questions, Juan?” Brock asks with a cocked eyebrow.

              I finish my burrito and nod. “For now.” I glance up at the flashing red light in the right corner of the ceiling adjacent to the door.

              “Great.” Brock leans forward conspiratorially. “Now tell me all about Patient 1.”

***

             
I woke up early the morning of my eleventh birthday and yawned as I stepped out of the attic (my bedroom). The house was pretty quiet, which made me nervous; but I couldn't sleep any longer, so I had to find something to do.

              I padded downstairs and sat in the living room to watch some television. I wasn't two minutes into the show when I heard a crash outside, like someone had thrown a bag of glass beer bottles on cement. I stood and tiptoed to the sliding glass door. Just as I was about to open it, gunfire ensued. My immediate reaction was to fall to the ground and play dead, just as my mother had taught me when I was very young. I heard a woman screaming, a child crying, and stentorian sirens blaring. I glanced up when the gunfire ceased and carefully crawled to the back door. There were bullet holes in the picket fence around the backyard.

             
Where's Mom?
I thought.
Is she okay?

              I backed away from the door and searched the house unsuccessfully for Mom. Despite the fear of being shot, I went out the front door and searched the yard. Nothing. She wasn't home.

              At eleven, I wanted to believe I was a tough kid. But when I discovered I was left home alone with no note or warning and there was a person firing a gun next door, I didn't know what to do. My mom didn't have a cell phone, and our home phone wasn't functioning. So, with no other options, I returned to my bedroom in the attic and hid under the covers, terrified that at any moment, someone would find me here and shoot me.

              Fortunately, however, my mother did return. With food. She climbed into my room and pulled the covers from my head. She wiped the tears from my face and smiled. “Sorry, I didn't think you would be awake this early. Come downstairs; I'll make you breakfast. What would you like?”

              I couldn't help it. I bawled and threw my arms around Mom's neck, holding on so tight that she could hardly breathe.

              “Juan, it's okay. What happened?” she inquired, patting my back.

              “I was afraid you wouldn't come back,” I sobbed.

              “Oh, um... I'm so sorry, Juan. Of course I'd come back. I would never leave you forever. Come on.” She extricated my arms from her neck and set me down on my bed. “I've got a surprise for you.” Her smile indicated that it really was a surprise. She already knew I was unnaturally skilled at anticipating the future. I followed her downstairs and gawked when I saw what was on the kitchen table. Not just food, but a box wrapped in baseball-themed wrapping paper.