The Romero Strain (18 page)

The third and final section was the research facility. It incorporated several labs and cells, where the test subjects were held. The base medical facilities were located there, along with the living quarters on the north end, next to the kitchen and mess hall.

The entire complex was rectangular in shape and approximately eight thousand square feet. Hallways ran on the north and south sides traveling east and west. There were three corridors that ran south to north from my position, two of which separated the underground structure into its thirds; the third passage was the one that divided the center of the complex and gave the living quarters their configuration. There was one final corridor that ran east to west through the center of the middle section. All passageways intersected one another and all had hermetically sealable doors.

I emerged on the south side. To the north was the main entrance to the complex, offset to the west, closer to the command center. The doctor had given inaccurate directions in his description of where things were and how the corridors flowed and intersected. I was happy to find directional floor plans mounted on the walls of the intersections stating:
You Are Here.

As I walked down the hallway, I could see that some of the complex was well lit, but emergency lighting illuminated other parts. Luckily the infirmary’s lighting was fully functional. I placed the female creature on the examination table. She was caked with dried blood and several other unknown substances over most of her body, which made diagnosing her weakened condition difficult. She needed to be cleaned off in order for me to properly examine her wounds, but the filth that caked her was substantial and would need a quicker and more efficient cleaning than a sponge bath, and the scrub sink wasn’t going to fulfill the need. Time was also of the essence.

As she laid there looking up at me, I bent over her and stroked her forehead.

“I have to leave you for a moment,” I gently whispered, gazing into her sad eyes. “But I’ll be back. I’m going to help you.” I assured her, as I took off my backpack and set it on the floor.

She understood, though I wasn’t sure if it was my tone or my actual words.

I darted out, heading toward the living area. As I approached the hallway where the soldiers and research scientists were quartered, I could see delineation between enlisted man, officer and scientist. Officers appeared to be on the left side of the hallway in private rooms, while a bunkhouse style room served as living quarters for the enlisted, and beyond was where the scientists lived. After trying two doors on the left, I found the third room unlocked. I looked in but could see no one as I stood in the low-lit passageway peering into the room.

I scoured the right entrance wall for a light switch. Finding it, I turned the center room light on. The room was small but not sparse. It was comfortable and homey, in a military sort of way, but most importantly it had a private shower. I entered the bathroom and turned the shower on. It was only a matter of seconds until I felt the warmth from the falling cascade on my hand. I deftly adjusted the water temperature.

Now this was certainly not the way I’d clean an injured person with an open wound. First I would irrigate the wounds with saline prior to any examination. But the extent of her filth and the urgency of getting her wounds immediate attention called for a more unconventional approach.

I took her in my arms, carried her to the shower, and placed her under the warm, soft flow. She seemed comforted by it, though I could tell that the water was also painful to her injuries.

I emptied my pockets and removed the pistol from my waistband and slid them across the floor away from her. I retrieved a clean washcloth from a small cupboard and stepped into the shower with her. I gently wiped away the grime and dried blood that covered her body to reveal her true features. The doctor had lied again. Her derma had not transformed her body into one complete leathery grey covering. There was an area remaining that still was her human skin, and though the skin’s pigmentation had changed slightly to a light grey, it was still soft and supple. It started below her larynx ran down along the front of her shoulders, around her breasts, down the edge of the rib cage, into the pubic area and partially into the crease of her inner thighs… essentially her reproductive areas.

Her brows had receded and her eyes had grown larger, but her neck had not elongated as much as I was expecting, having heard the doctor’s terrifying description. She indeed was animalistic, but still retained many of her female, human attributes. Her breasts were full, her waist thin, her buttocks round. She was tall, lean, muscular, and essentially still a woman. A beautiful one at that.

As I gently washed the dirt and dried blood from along her right arm, I noticed something that I didn’t see before. Upon her wrist was a plastic hospital identification band. I lifted up her hand, and though the ink on the bracelet had begun to run and smear, her name, rank, service number and age were still legible.

II. Luci in the Sky with Diamonds

Her name was Luci Leinster. She had been born and raised in Rochester, New York. Her parents had been Robert and Marie Leinster. Her father was from Dublin, Ireland. Her mother was American-born. They had met at the Rochester Institute of Technology and married shortly after Marie’s graduation, which had been one year prior to his. Luci’s parents died in a car accident on the New York State Thruway after a trip to New York City. The file did not contain many more details on her parents with the exception that Luci had not been with her parents at the time of their deaths.

Luci was twenty-six-years-old and a sergeant in the United States Army 105
th
Military Police Company (New York Army National Guard). She joined at age eighteen after graduating high school and was deployed during Operation Iraqi Freedom as part of the advance party of the 504
th
Military Police Battalion, which arrived in Kuwait in March 2003. Her battalion was assigned to the 220
th
Military Police Brigade, a U.S. Army Reserve unit from Maryland, as part of the 377
th
Theater Support Command.

Her service record also contained her photo and vital stats, which were exemplary; she had been awarded a Bronze Star for Valor, which was not what the doctor had told us. Luci had not been court-martialed, nor had disciplinary action been taken against her.

Aside from her service record, there were two other forms in the folder. The first was a consent form regarding the medical research study; she was volunteering to participate. The other was a questionnaire, apparently filled out in her handwriting.

The questionnaire was two pages in length. It asked questions of a personal nature, such as her fondest memory, her worst fear, what frightened her, and what made her happy. It sounded like a physiological profile disguised as character information. The questions that attracted my attention the most were in regard to music and film. She disliked horror and most sci-fi films, but enjoyed action flicks and romantic comedies. Some of her favorite actors were Adam Sandler, Hugh Grant and Christian Bale. Her music choice was mainly of the pop rock kind, mainly British artists, with one standing out significantly: Elton John. Asterisks had been placed on the beginning and ending of the name.

I put the file folder back into the cardboard box, which also contained her personal items. Inside were her dog tags, an iPod, and her uniform and personal identification. I put the top on the box and sat for a moment staring at it.

III. For Duty and Humanity!

After I thoroughly showered her and gently dried her, I wrapped her in another towel and took her back to the infirmary. Mending was best done in a room suited for the job, though I’m sure the living quarters from which we had come were more comfortable and relaxing to her.

The medical room was equipped with all the proper instruments needed for outpatient surgery, but not for major surgery. She had a bullet lodged shallowly in her left pectoral muscle just under the coracoid process of the scapula. She had another lodged in the hamstring muscle of her left leg and had been grazed on her right quadrolumborum muscle. The superficial wound appeared to be healing. Nonetheless, I would have to operate in order to remove the bullets from her other wounds. The two slugs appeared to be easy to remove, however, I was not about to dig and probe her without the use of conduction anesthesia.

The medicine cabinet was locked. I could clearly see a myriad of vials through the glass windows on the doors. Somewhere amongst them I hoped to find a local, injectable anesthesia.

I took the pistol out of my pants, turned it around, and used the butt end to crash through the glass. The sound of the shattering window startled her. Luci sat up. Again, I had to comfort and reassure her, telling her everything was going to be all right.

I returned to the broken cabinet and cleared away the jagged pieces of debris from its frame. I rummaged through the cabinet looking for an appropriate numbing agent. Not being a physician, I was not familiar with the contents held within the cupboard, nor was I trained in their proper use. However, I did recognize two vials:
lidocaine hydrochloride, most commonly known as xylocaine, and morphine. Morphine was too extreme for what I needed, and I didn’t know how her system would react to it. In humans, morphine has been known to cause acute respiratory depression, acute pancreatitis, renal failure, and chemical toxicity in low tolerance subjects.

Xylocaine was a local anesthesia used to block pain in a specific part of the body, allowing the patient to remain fully alert. The area that was anesthetized was usually small and superficial and the injection numbed the area to pain and any other sensations. Lidocaine was typically used for dental work, skin biopsies, or stitching a superficial wound. Though her wounds were neither superficial nor small, it would have to do.

I checked the drawers below the doors in search of a syringe, and having found one, I prepared the appropriate amount for the injection. As I approached her, she saw the needle and began to panic. In a soothing tone I assured her there was nothing to fear and that the needle was a good thing. I stuck the needle in my arm to show her that it was okay, her fear subsided and she lay back down.

Though the needle still frightened her, she allowed me to repeatedly inject it into her shoulder area. As I waited for the area to numb, I searched the room for the correct surgical instruments: scalpel, Kelly forceps, a retractor with blunt prongs, surgical gloves, sponges, tape, bandages, disinfectant, and sutures and needle. I found everything but a surgical probe.

I never had any surgical training, human or otherwise, and my paramedic training certainly didn’t cover bullet extraction. I liberally applied the Betadine antibacterial solution, a brown rusty-red colored liquid, to the surrounding tissue. It was a solution for cleaning minor wounds and used in hospitals to prepare a patient’s skin prior to surgery. I stood there with instrument in hand, like a hapless med-school graduate on his first day in practice.

The bullet had penetrated deep into the human part of her flesh. Blood flowed freely as I cut a one-inch incision above the wound and then carefully probed with the forceps in search of the lead slug. I sponged away the crimson flow.

Removal of the slug was uncomfortable for both of us, but it had to be done or she would not survive. I hoped the projectile missed all vital arteries and veins, and that my probing didn’t cause further damage. After extracting the bullet from her pectoral region and dressing the wound, I addressed the matter of the slug in the back of her left leg.

The wound to her leg was less severe, having barely penetrated beyond her tough, thick skin. The small-needled syringe was not made to infiltrate such a hard surface, so I inserted the needle inside the wound in order deaden the area. I could tell she was in pain as I did so, but she did not cry out. I spoke to her in a soft, gentle voice, first telling her that she was going to be okay, and then about the procedure I was trying to perform, since she was facedown and unable to see. Abruptly, she spun around and faced me. I jumped, startled at her movement. Suddenly I knew what my companions had experienced when I inadvertently rotated my neck the first time. I composed myself and began speaking to her again. I did not know if the words were soothing to her, if it was my sincere and concerned tones, or if she actually comprehended what I was saying, but the tension eased from her body.

I apologized for my act of surprise. I wasn’t sure if she understood, but a slight smile came to her face. Not a true human smile, but a… simper? No, it was a smile; coy and thin as it was, it was a smile. I wondered if the doctor had seen her facial expression. If he saw what I saw, would his assessment or judgment of this creature—this changed human—remain narrow-minded and adamant in regards to her fierceness?

She observed my retrieval of the mangled piece of lead, my dressing of her upper leg and the superficial injury to her side.

Bullet holes were not closed with stitches unless there was a large loss of blood or the blood was squirting out, in which case I needed to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. Wounds of that type healed from the inside out, with regular cleaning, disinfecting and redressing of the traumatized area to prevent infection. I was not going to be able to do that, and I did not know the extent of time needed for her body to mend, so suturing the wound was the only solution. She could not stay inside the room; it was too much of a risk for everyone. David and Marisol might be sympathetic and understanding, but the others wouldn’t, especially Joe.