Savage Drift

^{CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR} JOSIE

I wake to feel tape being removed from my left hand.

I open my eyes and here is the nurse again.

“Well, hello there!” she tells me. “You had quite a rest. Been asleep for a twelve hours, maybe more.”

It takes me awhile to remember where I am and why I can’t move my limbs.

The nurse holds up the water cup with the straw to my mouth.

I drink, grateful.

“I think somebody bit you on the hand, that’s what I think. I think this is a nasty old bite wound,” she says as she finishes changing the dressing.

I remember that she’s right.

Aidan, little Aidan bit my hand.

Dear God, what happened to my kids?

“I am Sandy,” she says. “And you are Josie Miller, according to this sorry excuse of a file. You were at the containment camps at Mizzou. Is that right?”

I nod.

“How do you feel?”

Niko came for me and watched me be attacked and then sedated and taken away. My kids were left to fend for themselves in a horrific blood rage riot. And now I’m being held prisoner in a government medical facility.

My wrists and ankles are chafed from the restraints. I can feel, now, that they’ve got a catheter stuck in me and it’s uncomfortable. My head is pounding. My throat is sore. My hand itches and my heart is broken.

I feel hopeless. Pulverized.

I have no words to answer her question.

“Let me ask you a better question. Are you hungry?”

And I am, I realize. My stomach feels hollowed out.

I nod yes.

She laughs.

“Good.” She crosses to the door and calls out, “Kelly, can you order up a breakfast for Miss Miller?”

She comes back and gives me another sip of water.

“Look, I have an apology to make. I’m the one who decided we should cut off your hair. I thought it was the right thing to do but, honey, now I feel bad. Those knots, though, the way you had it in those two bumps, they was all hard like a rock. Linnea, she’s black, she said your hair had done dreaded up and we should just shear it off, but I wouldn’t blame you at all if you’re mad at me.”

She was chatting away so nicely. It would be hard to be mad at her.

“I’m not mad,” I croak.

“Well, good. You don’t seem to me like the type to hold a grudge.”

I turn my face away from her.

I am just too sad.

“There, there,” she says, patting me on the shoulders. “Don’t be blue.”

She just stands there, fluttering next to my bed while I cry. She tucks me in, adjusts my pillows.

I don’t say anything.

I can’t.

“Hey now, you know what? I don’t think you need to be in these heavy restraints, I just don’t. Leather cuffs are for big burly men and Lord knows we’ve had our share of them in here. Little girl like you, I don’t think you could hurt a fly.”

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

“I’m going to put the tape ones on you. They’ll give you more room to maneuver, and you can lie on your side, which is nice. You know, I just need to trust that you’re not going to try to attack me.”

She slips her hand in mine and squeezes. Her skin is soft and moist. “You’re not going to attack me, are you, honey?”

“No,” I say sincerely. “I won’t attack you.”

“That’s my girl,” Sandy chirps. “I’ll be right back.”

She ducks out of the room.

While she’s gone, a man carries in a tray of food.

I can smell eggs, bacon, French toast, tea.

My mouth waters up immediately. It feels like my nose is drunk. My stomach growls.

The man chuckles.

“Go slow, now. Chew each bite ten times or you’ll get sick.”

Then Sandy is back with two small plastic bags containing my new restraints.

She presses a button and the head of my bed moves up.

She removes my leg restraints first.

I stretch each leg.

“That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I manage. “Thank you.”

The food. I can hardly wait for her to finish.

I feel a surge of nervous energy amping up. I want the food.

“Almost there.” She attaches the light straps to my feet and moves up to my wrists.

The lighter straps are much more comfortable.

The wrist restraints are bracelets attached to long straps that fasten to the bed rails.

“Nice, huh? They’re Kevlar and silk! Can you believe that?”

Sandy wheels the food tray, which is set on a stand, over my lap. There’s a little sealed cup of orange juice, a roll with two peel-top tubs of butter, a plastic-wrap-covered metal pitcher of pancake syrup and a silver lid over a plate of food.

Sandy removes the lid.

Eggs, bacon, French toast. It’s all there.

My hands are shaking as I pick up the plastic fork and take my first bite of eggs.

Buttery, creamy. Can your mouth go into shock?

I force myself to chew.

Sandy watches me.

“Honey,” she says, “I think you were starving to death down there at Mizzou. Did you know that?”

I look up.

I guess I did.

Back to the food.

“How’s the patient?” wakes me from my post-binge nap. It’s the movie star doctor.

“Fine,” I say in return.

“Good, good! Excellent.”

This is false cheer. He wants something from me.

“I see Sandy’s got you on the soft restraints. That’s her call to make. Fine with me.”

I can tell he’d like to sit on the edge of the bed, but he doesn’t.

“So, Josie, I’d like to know a little about your background. Would you mind telling me about your experience before you were picked up in Parker?”

I nod okay.

“Were you outside during the initial release?”

I must look confused, because he clarifies. “When the leak occurred from NORAD, were you outside? Were you exposed at that point?”

“No,” I tell him. “I wasn’t exposed until almost two weeks later. I was safe, inside a big building. When we tried to get to Denver, that’s when I was exposed.”

He’s making notes on his minitab with a stylus as fast as he can.

Sandy comes in, under the pretense of checking my IV, but I think she mainly wants to hear my story.

“See, this little kid Max was being attacked, and I knew, at that point, that I was O. The soldier attacking him was pretty out of it. I knew I could take him if I went O, so I took off my face mask.”

Sandy’s listening, her expression sympathetic.

Dr. Cutlass is just nodding, writing.

“And how long were you exposed at that point?”

“About three days. It’s hard to say, exactly. It was dark out there.”

“During that period, do you remember… were you completely out of control, or were you able to make any decisions?”

Dr. Cutlass looks up at me. My answer is very important to him.

“I was able to make decisions.”

“I knew it!”

“I was in control enough not to hurt my friends. That was pretty much all I could do—make the decision not to kill. But at Mizzou, when the drift hit, I found I had even more control than the first time I was exposed.”

Dr. Cutlass starts pacing now, in the small room.

“This is very exciting,” he says. He brings up another page on his minitab.

“Listen to what they wrote about you at Mizzou: ‘During the drift, Miller tried to save two small children. When every single other inmate was intent on murder and violence, Miller was seen breaking up a fight between the children and trying to get them to safety.’”

I sit up in my bed, my bonds tightening on my wrists.

“Who wrote that?” I ask.

“A doctor there.”

“Was it Dr. Quarropas?”

He looks.

“Yes, J. Quarropas.”

“Are you in touch with him?”

“Not to speak of. Why?” Cutlass asks me.

“I’d like to know… I’d like to know if my kids are okay,” I tell him.

Hope surges into my heart, catching me off guard.

Sandy, rearranging the sheets at the foot of the bed, pats one of my ankles.

Dr. Cutlass looks at me. He’s thinking it over.

“I tell you what. I’ll think about trying to get in touch with him and find out, but I need you to think about something, too.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Josie, I think that you are special. I think that you have the ability to exert conscious control over your mind when in a MORS-exposed state.”

“MORS?” I ask.

“MORS is the name of the warfare compound that was released in the Four Corners area,” he quickly explains. “What I need from you is just a sample of spinal fluid.”

He goes on to say that it’s a simple procedure, and there are a few risks, but they will be especially careful because I’m such an important subject and if I agree to it, he will have me released soon thereafter and all kinds of other things he thinks will make me go along with it.

And I might have, too, if it weren’t for this: As soon as Dr. Cutlass says “sample of spinal fluid,” Sandy’s head snaps up. She is still at the foot of the bed, behind Dr. Cutlass. Her eyes are wide, scared, and her mouth tightens into a pinched line.

And she shakes her head no. Quickly. No.

“So let’s do this,” Dr. Cutlass is saying. “You give me the names of those kids and I’ll find out what I can. Then, if you sign the release form, we’ll be all set.”

“Wait. How do you get spinal fluid?” I ask.

“Oh. Didn’t I say?”

I shake my head.

“We do a spinal tap. Really, this is something we do all the time.”

I can’t help it. My eyes dart to Sandy.

Dr. Cutlass sees this and turns to look at her over his shoulder. He shoots her a cold look. A freezing cold look.

“Hun,” she says. “I’m gonna go see about your lunch!”

Dr. Cutlass turns back to me, plastering a reassuring smile up on his face.

“We do it every day,” he says. “So. Tell me the names of your friends. You know, maybe I could even get them transferred to a safer facility.”

I know what this is. This is a bribe.

I give him the names.

I tell him I will think about it.

I see him decide that that’s the best he’s going to get, for now.

“You rest up, Josie Miller,” he tells me. “You and I have a lot of important work ahead of us.”

When I wake up, Sandy is fiddling with my IV.

“Sandy?” I ask her. “Is everything okay?”

She nods yes.

“It’s all good, my little peapod.”

But I know it’s not good. I know that she has an opinion about the testing Dr. Cutlass proposed.

“I’ve been wondering, if you’re feeling better, you want to get up a bit? Go for a walk?”

“Yes, please!”

She laughs.

Then she says, “See? It pays to cooperate. Dr. Cutlass said he finds you amenable and docile. That’s good news for you. Means you get to walk around a bit.”

There’s something wrong with her voice. It’s flat, somehow.

I catch her eye and she quickly looks over to the corner, directing me to look there.

Then she puts her hand on my leg.

“Let’s get these straps off,” and she turns me so I am facing the corner she just indicated with her eyes.

I see it.

A little silver half-sphere, up in the corner.

A security camera.

We’re being watched and recorded.

So she’s got to say the right thing.

“We’re gonna take it slow, sweet girl. But I thought I’d give you a little tour of the Zone Four testing and premium rehabilitation suites of USAMRIID.”

After she removes the straps, and the catheter, I get to stand up.

My legs buckle under me and Sandy supports me. She’s so short her shoulder fits perfectly under my armpit.

“Take it easy, now. Just see how standing feels. Might be I should get you a wheelchair.”

“No,” I tell her. “I want to walk. Really, I do.”

I put my arm around her shoulders. She’s small and wiry. Strong.

We have to roll around my IV, but it’s okay. I can lean on it a bit.

I take two, three slow steps away from my bed.

“Sandy, before we go in the hall…”

“Hmm?”

“Can I see how I look?”

The bathroom has a shower, a sink, and a toilet. Everything is tiny and compact. In the golden-colored light of my tiny bathroom, I am surprised. I like what I see.

My hair is gone. Shorn off. It’s very close to the skin, but I like it.

It makes me look like a grown-up. And it makes me look tough.

And when I think about it, I guess I am both those things.

I’m able to walk okay, after those first few moments.

My body feels a little sore and tired, but God knows it’s felt worse.

The hallway looks like a regular hospital, but I see, after peeking in one or two of the rooms, that there are no windows.

“There’s facilities in Fort Bragg and Fort Benning and other places, but they pick all the most promising cases and send them here to us,” Sandy tells me as we walk.

Many of the doors are closed, but in one I see a huge, hulking guy restrained on a bed. In another there’s a man visiting a crying woman, who sits on her bed in a gown like mine.

“Are we allowed to have visitors?” I ask.

“Sometimes.” Sandy sighs. She points to a metal door with a large window. The glass is shot through with steel mesh. An armed guard stands on the other side.

She waves to him. He nods back a fraction of an inch.

“Every doorway to the stairwell on every floor is guarded, twenty-four/seven. Nobody gets in here who shouldn’t be, don’t you worry.”

She pats my arm.

Her words are telling one story on the surface, but I feel like there’s a subtext—don’t try to run.

“The security’s even tight for us. Retina checks on every floor. It’s all designed for the utmost safety for everyone who works here.”

She’s telling me they check identity at every door. I’d need stolen eyeballs to escape.

We walk along and suddenly I get tired.

The energy just goes out of me.

“We’re underground,” she says, waving hello to another nurse. “That’s why you don’t see any windows.”

There’s a humming noise, getting louder, and I see we’re nearing a room where a man is using an industrial floor polisher.

“I’m getting tired,” I say.

“Just a bit more,” she tells me.

I don’t want to go anymore. I want to sleep.

But she keeps walking until we’re right by the guy with the polisher and it’s loud.

She leans into me.

“Don’t sign the consent form,” she says in my ear. “The spinal tap he wants to do, it’s too dangerous for people like you.”

I watch the man moving the polisher in a circle. He looks up and I see him catch Sandy’s eye.

“Dr. Cutlass is a good man, but he’s… he’s lost… perspective. Those spinal taps are not safe for people like you. Other people, yes, maybe. But not Os who’ve been exposed. Not skinny-minnies like you. Got it?”

Chills creep up my spine. I nod.

She turns me and we head back to my room.

“And you didn’t hear it from me.”