MirrorWorld (7 page)

“I’m going to run.”

“And get caught.”

I shake my head. “I think you know that’s not what will happen. You have five seconds to tell me why I’m here. Five … four…”

Allenby grunts and stomps her foot. “You’re infuriating. Fine.”

I grin, but also note she didn’t wait until I got to one, or until I started running. She believed me. Trusted what I said. I haven’t been given that kind of respect in a long time, and I appreciate it despite the circumstances.

“It’s a drug trial.” She waves her hand at her head. “For your condition.”

“What if I don’t want to be cured?” I ask. “I’ve seen what fear does to people, and I’m not sure I—”

“Not that condition,” she says. “The other one.”

I’m confused for a moment until I realize she’s talking about my memory. “What if I don’t want to remember?”

She turns away and starts walking. “You do.”

“You’re calling my bluff?” I ask.

“We both know you have a horrible hand,” she says, stopping. A square of rooftop before her comes to life, rising up. A black rectangle, ten feet tall, six wide, emerges from below and stops, looking like a futuristic megalith. And then it opens, revealing an elevator. Allenby steps inside and turns around. With a single raised eyebrow and a matching grin, she says, “Coming?”

*   *   *

Stepping out of the elevator, we enter a hallway that defies all of my expectations. Given the stark feel of the building’s obsidian surface, I expected something similar to the SafeHaven floor—stark, gleaming white, and brightly lit. Instead, it’s … homey. Warm hardwood floors. A thick, oriental runner down the middle of the hall. End tables with a variety of lamps. “This doesn’t look like a laboratory.”

“It isn’t,” Allenby says. “It’s the residential level.” She starts down the hall. She stops three doors down on the right. “This is your room.”

I feel like I’m in some sort of strange dream, and peek into the room, which is more than a room. It’s an apartment. From the doorway, I can see a kitchenette, living room, and dining area. The furnishing is comfortable. The brushed metal appliances are modern. The d
é
cor is casual, almost primitive, with wooden carvings and emotionally charged, modern oil paintings.

I step inside.

I’m
drawn
inside.

Immediate comfort washes over me. My muscles relax. “How did you do it?”

“What?” she asks.

I motion to the apartment. “
This
. I don’t think I could have told you what I would like in an apartment, but … this is it. Every detail feels … right. Like home.”

“I’m not an interior decorator,” she says.

A painting in the living room attracts my attention. It’s a two-foot square of color—thick dabs of red radiate out from the middle to orange, yellow, and a hint of green around the fringe.

“How does it make you feel?” Allenby asks.

“I thought you were a medical doctor.”

She steps up beside me, eyes on the painting. “I’m not evaluating you.”

“Yes you are,” I say. “How does it make
you
feel?”

“Melancholy.” She turns away and heads back toward the door.

“Well, it makes me hungry.” I turn toward the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by an island. I open the fridge and find it fully stocked. Most of it looks healthy, but hiding in the door, among the brand-new bottles of condiments and cups of chocolate pudding, is a Snickers bar and a can of Cherry Pepsi.

My mouth salivates and both hands reach out, claiming the prizes. The wrapper comes off faster than a male stripper’s pants. I take a bite and moan with pleasure. I haven’t had something this sweet since … well, I can’t remember. While taking a second bite, I pop the soda top with one hand and, before swallowing the mash of chocolate, caramel, peanuts, and nougat in my mouth, drain half the can.

“You clearly don’t fear diabetes, either,” Allenby says.

I raise the can as though giving a toast. “Or sugar lows.” Three more bites, two drinks, and sixty-five grams of sugar later, my meal is done.

“Ready to go?” Allenby asks.

I take a step to follow her. “Actually…” I look around the room and realize that I’m not turning my head. The room is spinning. I grip the island to keep from falling over.

“Whoa there,” Allenby says. I feel her holding my arms, steadying me. “Let’s get you to the couch.”

I let her guide me. The couch is just fifteen feet away, but it feels like I’m walking through knee-deep mud to reach it.

“Okay,” she says, guiding me down. “Slowly. Slowly.”

I fall from her grasp, but the couch catches me. I try to open my eyes but lack the strength. Allenby places her fingers against my neck, checking my pulse. With a sigh, she stands back up and says, “He’s out.”

A door opens and a new voice, deep and masculine, asks, “What did it, the candy or soda?”

“Both, actually,” Allenby says. “He’s going to be unconscious for a long time.”

And then, I am.

8.

I’m paralyzed.

But I can hear. And smell. And feel.

The soft cotton against my skin reveals a sheet. The weight of a blanket rests atop it. I can feel the sheet on my chest, my stomach, and legs, but not my midsection. I’m dressed in boxers. There is a tightness around my wrists. Restraints.

Poor Allenby. I had begun to like her.

A heart monitor beeping out a steady beat echoes sharply. I’m in a small room, full of hard objects. I picture it in my mind. Some kind of examination / hospital room. Cabinets along the walls. A sink maybe. No chairs. Nothing soft aside from the blankets. The temperature on my skin is even, so there are no windows. Or the shades are pulled. Or it’s night.

The smell is antiseptic. Sterile. Like SafeHaven, but with less bleach and more … what is that? Thyme and clove? Strange. But there’s something else in the air. Old Spice. Rose soap. A man and a woman. The man smells new, but the woman is Allenby. The rose scent was fainter on her before, but she must have taken a shower.

I can hear them breathing now that I know they’re there. But what are they doing?

Watching me,
I decide. Or listening to the heart monitor. Trying to decide if I’m awake. Too bad for them: my heart rate, at rest, is rock-solid. Anyone else waking up to this situation would panic. A spike in the heart rate would reveal consciousness.

“He’s still out,” Allenby eventually says.

“He did consume both sedatives,” the man says. He sounds older. Sixties, maybe.

“Will he be okay?” Allenby’s earnest-sounding concern for my welfare is intriguing.

“The drugs will wear off soon enough,” the man says. “He’ll be fine. You know he’s tough.”

“It’s not his body I’m worried about. Did the MRI reveal anything? Is the damage reversible?”

“His memories are not our primary concern. Honestly, I think we’ll all be better if he doesn’t remember.”

“He might not comply without them,” Allenby says. “He might run again.”
Again?
“He already threatened as much.”

The man’s voice is louder when he speaks again. Leaning over me. “Then let’s hope he realizes the perilous nature of his situation.”

Whatever he intends to do with me, it doesn’t hold my attention nearly as much as the revelation that this isn’t my first visit to … wherever this is. Allenby seemed comfortable around me earlier. Like she knew me. They certainly knew I’d go for the candy and soda, even though I couldn’t have told you that about myself. But is she a friend or the architect of my amnesia? Just because she knows me doesn’t mean we’re pals. I can’t conceive of how she’d be both a friend and responsible for my lack of memory. Despite her apparent concern for my well-being, mounting evidence suggests the direr of the two relationships. What experimental scientist doesn’t hope for a positive outcome? Doesn’t mean they’re not willing to have a few patients die—or forget their lives.

A tingling sensation moves through my body, starting in my feet and ending at my head. That’s when I notice the chill atop my head. They’ve shaven off my ratty hair. But why? Have they already performed some kind of surgery, or did my dirty hair disgust them?

The tingling becomes pins and needles. I wiggle a toe beneath the blankets. Mobility is returning.

The man, who is apparently quite observant, takes note. “He’s coming out of it.”

With the ruse up, I open my eyes. It’s harder than I expected, like fighting against the effects of too much alcohol. But the heavy feeling fades fast. A few blinks later, my eyes are open. The room looks pretty much like I expected it to. Mostly white, hard surfaces.

Allenby leans into view, her lion’s mane of gray hair swaying like great pine trees in a strong wind. “How are you feeling?”

I glance toward the man. He’s older than I thought. Perhaps in his seventies, with bright white hair, an equally white beard, and spectacles over his blue eyes. He’s overweight and slightly hunched but carries himself in a way that says,
I’m in charge
.

I look back to Allenby. “Betrayed.” While she’s focused on my serious gaze, I slowly clench my fists and bend my wrists in, pressing them against the restraints.

“I’m sorry about this,” she says. “I really am.”

“Uh-huh.” I turn to the old man, who’s still watching me. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hitchcock.”

“Hitchcock?” Allenby asks, looking back at the man.

The man stares at me in a way I can’t read. Is he amused or about to torture me? I can’t tell. “Because I’m old and fat and up to no good, is that it?”

I nod.

He dips his head to me in greeting. “My name is Doctor Stephen Lyons. I’m the head of Neuro Inc. You’re currently in our headquarters.”

“I didn’t see a sign,” I say.

“And you won’t. We’re not a public corporation.”

“A black organization funded by the government, then,” I say, watching his eyebrows rise, “which would explain why some of your employees have military histories, though if Blair is military, he needs a refresher.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Lyons says. “But not everyone has your special set of skills.”

“Unless a dangerous lack of fear and amnesia have become desirable traits, I’d say he’s better off than me.”

Lyons points a finger at me and winks. “A debate for another time, I’m afraid.” He steps toward the door. “I’m retiring for the evening.”

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Midnight,” he says. “You’ve been asleep for eight hours.”

“And you expect me to sleep now?” I lift my arms. The restraints snap taut. “In these?”

Allenby looks at my hands and gasps. The purple mottled skin caused by my cutting off the circulation looks horrible and has the desired effect. She takes one of the restraints in her hands and looks at Lyons, who nods. She looks at me. “Please don’t try anything. There’s a guard right outside.”

“I saved your life today,” I tell her. “We fought side by side. For now, we’re comrades. You’d rather that not change.”

She nods slowly and loosens the strap, not enough to free me, but enough to ease my phony discomfort. “Can’t argue with that.”

I make a fist as she refastens the buckle. The flexed muscles and swelling caused by the buildup of blood increase the thickness of my arm by a few millimeters, but that should be enough.

She moves to the other side and repeats the process.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she whispers, leaning in close. Her voice seems loud enough that Lyons should be able to hear, but he shows no indication of having heard her warning.

Allenby makes unflinching eye contact while she works the second strap. Is she trying to tell me something beyond,
don’t be stupid,
or am I being played? They knew I’d go for the sweets. Maybe she knows what I intend to do next? Could I really be that predictable? Up until this moment, I’ve always seen myself as unpredictable. Not even I know what I might do or say, moment to moment.

Finished, she stands back.

“Now sedate him,” Lyons says.

I lift the leather manacles holding me in place. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Do it,” he says. Despite his elderly appearance, he’s not senile enough to underestimate me.

Allenby opens one of the white cupboards and retrieves a preloaded syringe of who knows what. She jabs my shoulder and shoves the plunger down. As my consciousness begins drifting back toward darkness, I watch Allenby and Lyons leave. She gives me an apologetic glance and then switches off the lights.

Lyons speaks before the door closes fully. “I want him prepped in the morning. I don’t see the point in waiting any longer.”

“I’m not sure he’s ready,” Allenby says.

The man sighs. “I’m not interested in giving him a choice.”

The door clicks shut.

9.

Despite the all-encompassing darkness, my return to wakefulness is sudden. There’s no tingling. No pins and needles. Whatever Allenby gave me, it wasn’t the same substance they put in the food.

Other than the distant hum of the building’s air-conditioning, the room is silent. Even the heart monitor has gone mute. Or has it been turned off? I lay still for a moment, gathering my thoughts.

I’m held captive—restrained and sedated—in a secret facility. The doctor, Lyons, intends to perform some kind of test, or surgery, on me in the morning. For all I know, the sun has already risen. Everyone here is lying to me. Playing me. Controlling me. And because of that, I can’t believe a single thing I’m told. Two courses of action emerge. I can escape, plain and simple. Or I can find out who these people are, what Neuro Inc. is after, and possibly get some answers about myself, since it seems I’ve been here before.

The second option is clearly the riskier of the two, but since I don’t worry about risk, it’s also the only acceptable option.

I lift my arms up, fold my thumbs down and pull hard on the restraints. They’re still fairly tight, but there is just enough wiggle room to pull my hands free. It’s an uncomfortable process, but within three minutes of squirming, I’m free.

Cool air raises goose bumps all over my body as I pull the blankets away. As I thought, I’m dressed in boxers. I feel the elastic waist. It’s tight. New. Someone undressed me. My hand goes to my chest next, feeling that the pendant is still there, somehow keeping me grounded.