Blaine lay on the lawn and pretended to doze in the winter sun. The gathering clouds had come to nothing, and promptly dispersed. The grass, which he expected to be crisp and cool like the air, was fake. He felt horribly weak and was tempted to take a half dose of Ramer’s Cure to manage his condition.
He took the opportunity to examine his surroundings: listening, inhaling, watching through half-hooded eyelids. He looked for any possible escape path. Based on the occurrence of the seizures, he knew he’d been captive more than a week. The frequency of the seizures would inevitably increase without the Cure.
He had to get out—before he was too weak to attempt it.
From all appearances, the area of the green was fully enclosed by a concrete wall with a metre more of glass on top. Undoubtedly a safety measure. A modern building constructed to modern health and safety regulations; there definitely had to be a fire escape somewhere.
Yawning, he rolled onto his side and then flipped over, as if sunning the opposite side of his body. Again, eyes half-closed, he scanned his surroundings.
Yes! There! Fire exit stairs—clearly signed.
Six ticks for hope!
Carl was standing between him and it, as if nonchalantly surveying the scene.
Yawning, Blaine stretched out and actually did fall asleep for a while. He was woken by Baldy’s firm shake to his shoulder.
‘Wake up, kid. Time to go.’
Blaine squinted at the large man’s hand and rubbed his eyes. ‘How’d you get those marks on your wrist?’
‘Huh?’ A UHF communication radio on Baldy’s belt burbled in subdued tones.
‘Sam, hurry up!’
So Baldy was called Sam—and Sam ignored Blaine’s question about the scars as he hauled him to his feet. Again Blaine studied Sam’s hand, certain the marks were from having numerous i/v lines inflicted upon him.
Perhaps Sam knew what it was like to be a human pincushion. Perhaps Sam was only tough on the outside. Or maybe he was a druggie.
‘Have to take the stairs, Carl. Network’s just gone down.’ Sam directed them through a door. The door!
Blaine glanced at the emergency evacuation procedures plastered on each level as they descended the fire exit stairwell.
‘Stupid swipe cards. Good thing you carry master keys. Keys never go down.’ Carl’s voice echoed up and down the fireproof cement walls.
‘Anyone allocated a key’ll have it out now for sure. Downtime messes with the instruments, too, so Dr Hartfield will be exceptionally happy when we return her little lab rat.’
Blaine frowned at Sam, but the huge man winked back. Lab rat? So they sympathised? Was it worth the risk? ‘So, you guys gonna let me go all the way down? I’d really like to go home.’ He grinned to help convince them.
‘Now, young Blaine, that seems a reasonable request, but I don’t think my mortgage repayments would look too good without a job.’
‘So you’re just going to put me back against my will and let those vampires get at me again?’
‘That’s the way it’ll be.’
‘Could you ...’ Blaine felt like he’d swallowed an invisible ball from the air. He tried to push it down far enough to finish his sentence. He could see there were just a few floors to go, so he coughed, gulped, and tried again. ‘Could you please call my mum to tell her I miss her and Dad, and that I’m okay?’ He gritted his jaw to force the ball firmly down.
Was he okay?
In just an instant, he knew the lump could bounce back up and set off a whole chain of carefully squelched responses.
‘I’m sure Dr Hartfield will see to that.’
But from the look Carl and Sam shot each other, Blaine was pretty certain they were not convinced of any such thing. He shrugged as they opened the door and steered him indoors. ‘Thanks anyway.’
He took mental notes about the alternate route back to his room. He recognised Melissa Hartfield’s office and glimpsed the lab through a glass wall behind her desk. Intrigued, he pretended to lose his footing so he could look a little longer.
It seemed that the network outage hadn’t just messed with the swipe card access. From the untidy sprawl of computer-linked equipment, Blaine guessed it messed with just about everything that could be networked.
Then his preternaturally-acute hearing picked up Dr Hartfield’s voice—and he froze.
‘Well, Mrs Colton. As I explained, some of the tests were inconclusive. They suggested his treatment could be starting to fail, that in a matter of months he could be back in a chair, or even ... well, I’d not like to presume. Our observations confirm his health is declining quite rapidly.’
In the stillness from the network outage, he could even pick up the soft sob on the other end of the phone.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Colton, I would have told you sooner, but we only just received the results back this morning. I was in the middle of an important meeting when you called earlier, so was unable to discuss this confidential information. If you have any questions, I’d be happy to meet with you both to determine how we can make Blaine most comfortable in the coming period. Good day.’
Dr Hartfield placed the mobile phone on her desk and leaned back in her chair. As she looked up, she seemed startled to see his eyes accusing her.
‘Come on, kid!’ Sam jostled him along as Dr Hartfield stood up. Blaine heard the slam of her office door moments later.
Mum!
How desperately he wanted to speak to her. What she must think after that prognosis! He knew it wasn’t true and the only reason they’d be getting such indications would be due to the omission of Ramer’s Cure from his treatment.
Or could Dr Hartfield be lying outright?
This thought planted itself firmly in his mind. If so, why?
Didn’t she claim my parents were the ones who had lied?
Sam and Carl directed him through a corridor thick with the aroma of disinfectant. That ball in Blaine’s throat began to roll around, tearing like a lump of gravel. It was all he could do not to run back to Dr Hartfield’s office and tell her about ‘The Cure’ on the off-chance it meant he could go home and get the medication he so desperately needed. But instinct told him it would only extend the sampling and pose more questions for them to answer.
Without warning, Sam gripped Blaine’s arm, pulling him to a stop. ‘Carl, double check they’re ready for him.’ He unlocked the door and pushed it open for his colleague.
With a nod, Carl passed through, leaving them standing against the wall. As the door slowly closed, Blaine heard a monitor squealing. He recognised the pitch and, based on the direction, decided it was probably one of the machines in his room.
Networked.
The sound muted as the door shut. Blaine took the opportunity to study Sam’s profile. Tattoos scrawled across Sam’s arms. Most of them were poorly executed. They looked faded. A few scars and the odd angle of Sam’s nose suggested he’d had a fair bit of opportunity to talk with his fists in the past. But like the faded tattoos, the scars seemed old—white rather than angry red.
‘Why aren’t you scared of me, Sam?’
Sam glanced sidewards, a half-frown wrinkling his brow. ‘The coats don’t do much for me, plus we didn’t want the authorities getting funny about things if they saw us.’
Blaine grinned.
‘What’s with you, kid?’
‘I call ’em “coats” too.’
Sam returned his grin. ‘Coats attract attention. Without them, we could just be taking some school kid on a tour. ’Sides, I figure your folks haven’t had much of an issue with you, so I’m pretty safe. Just don’t bite.’ He winked.
Sam’s all right. And I think I’ve just made a friend inside.
Seven ticks.
The door sprung ajar and Carl’s head popped through the gap. He held up a key, waggled it at them, and grinned. ‘Just resetting the cameras an’ gear. Won’t be a minute. Phones are back up now, too.’
‘What a dumb system.’ Blaine snorted his disapproval.
‘You don’t say. Recent addition that cost ten human kidneys to have put in.’
Blaine loved the shot of sarcasm as much as the hint of a conscience behind it. ‘I’m thinking it’s the same system my dad has at his work. He’s always having trouble because of it.’
‘Probably, kid, probably.’
Finally they were allowed in. Blaine began to count the seconds until the obs room door clicked. He needed to know just how much time he’d have before the alarm went off.
But it didn’t click. He strained his ears, wondering if he’d missed it.
Must have. The alarm hasn’t sounded.
Then he heard a voice at the far end of the corridor. ‘Where’s Cable? We need these door alarms reset.’
‘Our guy’s on holidays. Have to get someone sent over from another division—and there’s a scheduled maintenance Thursday. At this rate we’ll get nothing done this week!’
Thursday. Eight ticks!
Blaine’s heart jumped in his chest as he calculated what day it was. Tuesday? Or Wednesday? But, if Wednesday, surely they’d have said ‘tomorrow’. He figured he had at most 48 hours to make his move.
As soon as Carl and Sam left, he went to the bathroom and took one dose of Ramer’s Cure, feeling as if all his hopes had collided at once. Tomorrow he’d take another Cure and then wait for opportunity to strike.