Chapter 3

‘Good morning, Mr Colton. How are we today?’

Blaine refused to acknowledge the ‘white coats’. They were supposed to be a team of scientific attendants but to him they were more like prison wardens. Late into the night he’d explored his room—gotta face the truth: not a room, a holding cell. He’d peered as far as he could through the viewing glass. There was only one way out, and it required swipe card access.

The door to his cell opened to a small anteroom. He presumed the corridor beyond it led to the lab where his treatment was developed. His cell had an enclosed balcony to give it less of a prison feel. But it was fully secured and he figured the window was one-way glass, like the rest of the building’s exterior.

Lying flat on his back, he pretended he was again living in his atrophied body. Perhaps if I con them into thinking I’ve relapsed, there’ll be panic. He had learned over his years as a silent observer that whenever there was panic there were always mistakes. Maybe even a door could be left ajar ...

A plan, perhaps, but it was ruined by the grumbling of his stomach as a tray of breakfast was delivered.

Maybe I’ll try that tomorrow ...

After guzzling down a bottle of spring water, Blaine layered multiple slices of the best cheese he’d ever tasted with thinly-shaved shoulder ham onto warm croissants. Fresh fruit salad was accompanied by a side serve of Honey Buzz yoghurt. My favourite. Done their homework, haven’t they?

When breakfast was over, he sat on the enclosed balcony looking out. He heard an ambulance scream towards the nearby hospital, saw a truck drive in and another out of the industrial estate, but that was all.

After only an hour he was bored beyond reason, so he decided to do a short workout. The bench was a good height to use as a step for jump-ups and stretches, and for propping up his feet as extra resistance when doing push-ups. He knew the floor would be pristinely clean—more than enough for him to do sit-ups and any floor routine he wished. The only thing lacking was an overhead bar for chin-ups.

Lathered with sweat, he went into the tiny ensuite to shower. He looked at the bidet and grinned. Sure, it would be practical when catering for mobility-impaired persons, but it was weird having one in his bathroom.

He showered, dried himself and began to redress. His clothes were still damp and stank of day-old sweat. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he rinsed out his underwear and held them in the Airblade hand-dryer. They were soon dry. He freshened up the rest of his clothing by passing them through the warm, high velocity air.

Wearing just his jeans, he exited the small alcove to find Dr Hartfield waiting for him.

‘We could have laundered your clothes and given you a hospital gown instead.’ Her eyes swiftly scanned his bare upper body. ‘There are facilities available nearby.’

‘I prefer to wear my own things.’ Heat crept up Blaine’s neck and face and then spilled out over his entire body—but it wasn’t Dr Hartfield’s presence triggering his reaction.

Thinking back through the past few days, he realised he had forgotten to take his meds two days running. This would be the third day without the medication essential to the maintenance of his gene therapy.

How could I be so stupid?

The occasional miss, sure, but two days in a row was entirely out of character. Three was dangerous.

Had he been so preoccupied by Sophie’s message that all sense had been knocked from his head? Was he just anxious over the unscheduled follow-up assessment? They always made him a little nervous.

‘You can leave your shirt off. I have to attach some electrode pads.’ Dr Hartfield paused, as if awaiting a response. ‘Blaine, are you all right?’

He nodded and sank down onto the chair near the bed. Sweat popped out all over his face and hands, and began to trickle down his back. His vision clouded up and he knew that a fever spike could put him over the edge. Slow, calm breathing … ‘All right, sure ...’

A glimpse at Dr Hartfield’s face proved she didn’t believe him. Instead, her scrutiny increased. ‘Blaine, I just wanted to detail the next few days with you. As I mentioned, we’ll need to run a few tests, which means more blood work and biopsies. I’m sorry. I know this doesn’t excite you, but it will give us a better indicator of where you’re at. I’ll pop these pads on now and get you hooked up for monitoring.’

Blaine gripped the arm rests and pressed himself back in the padded seat. Everything went out of focus and Dr Hartfield’s words turned to meaningless prattle. Cords were clipped to monitors and the hollow burble continued until it sounded like a loud hum.

As if taunting him in his misery, he felt the fever spike begin and a machine squealed like some tattle-tale in a primary school playground. He knew this alert would bring a multitude of attendants.

Blaine fought to remain conscious as heat razed through him. A company of white coats gathered about, suffocating his darkening view until all he could see was black dots.

‘I thought the convulsions had ceased since his therapy?’ Blaine heard one of them say.

‘Is he on any prescription drugs?’

‘There’s nothing specified in the information Professor Ramer left. Just some supplement.’

Blaine sensed he was approaching seizure. ‘Do ... something!’ But no one moved.

Why don’t they know about the Cure?

The silhouettes with their clipboards, monitors and piqued curiosity haloed his obscured view.

‘It would appear the carrier was not avirulent, as Professor Ramer claimed,’ one of the coats remarked.

‘That’s what worries me.’ Dr Hartfield’s voice was muffled by a surgical mask. Her voice was calm and precise as she read the display of each monitor attached to the specimen.

I’m still here, people, and I’m not a lab rat!

‘Take every precaution until we know exactly what was used and what genetic material was incorporated.’

‘H-help me!’ Blaine gargled, his body beginning to spasm.

‘Just a little longer, Blaine. We know just what your body can take before there’s irreversible damage.’

Blaine wanted to curse at this unseen person, but his jaw locked. Entering last stage… oh God, help. His vision gone, he could only hear the voices of the coats.

‘That’s enough. Administer something to try and drop his temp.’

‘Paracetamol i/v?’

‘Might work.’

‘Might not—then what?’

‘What about an anticonvulsant?’

Feeling like he had gone ten rounds in a professional boxing clash, Blaine lay helpless on the surgical table. The discussion of the coats swarmed through his mind like mosquitoes over swampy water.

‘Hold off on the meds. I’d like to find out what’s in his system and what might be causing the reaction first. I’m surprised he’s managed those spikes, especially lately, with the increased frequency. It’s like … well, I wouldn’t like to guess. There’s also nothing about post-treatment seizures of that magnitude on my records! Get the serology, immunohistochemistry and DNA analysis underway.’

‘Will have some results within hours, Melissa, all going well.’

‘We need to match it to the experimental strains in Ramer’s stocks. Surely he wouldn’t have destroyed it.’

‘Are we allowed to access those, Mel? I thought we had to have written permission or—’

‘I’m giving you permission!’

‘Do you want us to produce antibodies?’

‘There are your antibodies!’ This voice was like whiplash, cracking sharp and cold in Blaine’s mind. ‘Whatever it is, it must reside in the ganglions!’

‘Which should narrow down our diagnosis.’

‘But how do you think you’re going to get at it, Dr Hartfield, without … eliminating the host?’

Eliminating the host. Eliminate. Host.

Blaine tried to move; tried to remind them he was not some mouse in a cage. They talked on, discussing him as if he had no ears or brain with which to process their conversation. Help!

‘What does it matter? It’s integrated into the genome. It’s not like we can jump it out.’

‘But if we can devise a way to replicate the process without inferring the virulent attributes …’

‘Yes, but obviously it was that vigour that enabled it to attack the entire body—and hence rectify the condition so effectively. Try culturing it in a human cell line.’

His vision splintered into focus for a moment, enough to see a blonde fuzz bobbing above a surgical mask. He assumed Dr Hartfield was nodding her head. And that was the last thing he remembered.

Blaine had no idea how long he was out. He’d been rolled into the recovery position and Dr Hartfield was back in the chair, waiting for him with concern etched across her brow. He couldn’t see her mouth. The surgical mask was back on, and her eyes peered out from behind a thin plastic shield protecting her eyes.

Blaine turned his head to look straight at the distorting lamps above. He smelled the familiar odour of the room. Clean—sickly so. He fought a strong urge to throw up.

As feeling returned, he noticed something pulling at the skin of his left arm, either side of his elbow. Clumsily, he shuffled the arm, then realised it was a cotton ball secured with tape. Vampires!

He jiggled his head. ‘Some new life this is.’

‘I’ll leave you for a while to recover. Don’t worry, you’ll be closely monitored and we’ve got a paramedic on call. The hospital is also only a walk away.’ Dr Hartfield swiped her card and left. The door clicked heavily behind her.

With his strength returning, Blaine pushed himself to a sitting position and waited for his head to remember it wasn’t a yo-yo. That had been the worst seizure he’d suffered since the gene therapy. The occasional fever spike he was used to managing, but the seizures were embarrassing.

He looked down at his jeans. They now needed proper laundering. The mirrored wall reflected his face. When he saw the eggshell hue of his sweat-lacquered skin, he groaned. His dark, wavy hair was so wet it stuck to his scalp. He ruffled it up before pretending to pick his nose for the benefit of the guard sure to be watching from behind the one-way wall.