Specimen(52)

I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that will help my struggles. I’m punched in the gut again and again. I hear laughter and groaning. I hear her screams.

There’s nothing I can do.

*****

Something warm and wet is being dragged across my forehead. There’s a sweet, distinct scent filling my nose. My temples throb as my mind tries to make meaning of the smell.

“Riley,” I groan.

I grab at the wrist near my head and hear a soft, female gasp as I tighten my grip on it. The wrist is thin and bony. The texture of the skin isn’t quite right. As I inhale again, the scent isn’t the same as it was a moment ago.

Still, I keep my grip tight even as I feel fingers try to pry mine away.

“I can’t help you if you don’t release my hand.” The voice is definitely female but not Riley’s. In the back of my head, I knew it wasn’t Riley from the moment I touched her, but it’s the first female contact I’ve had—the closest I’ve felt to having Riley beside me again. The scent isn’t the same but still distinct and enticing.

I open my eyes. They must be somewhat swollen shut because I can’t open them very much. I force myself to focus on the woman crouched over me. She’s in her mid-forties with short black hair and bright blue eyes. I slowly release her wrist, and she goes back to dragging the cloth over my head.

I glance down at myself. I’m partially covered with a blanket but still naked. There are bruises and burns everywhere. Hardly any unmarred skin is visible.

“I’m Anna,” the woman says. “You try to relax for me, okay? I’m just going to finish getting you cleaned up. I’ve got to disinfect the cuts, so there will be a bit of a sting.”

She runs something over my head, and the liquid does burn slightly, but the sting doesn’t compare to all the other pain. My vision blurs and my head lolls to one side. I try to swallow, but I can’t. It’s too much effort.

“How is he doing?” The voice is muffled, the words jumbled together. I can’t see who’s speaking.

“The burns are bad,” Anna says, “but he’s healing faster than anyone I’ve ever seen before. There really isn’t a lot I can do for him except to use common sense medicine. He needs rest. He needs nourishment. He’s also beginning to show signs of withdrawal. I don’t know how often he was being injected with TST. Errol may have a better idea.”

“Are you suggesting we somehow get him that drug?”

“I’m suggesting that he’s likely to go through some serious withdrawal. It may be a couple of weeks, but once the drugs are out of his system, we’ll know more.”

“Riley,” I mumble as consciousness fades. “I need Riley.”

*****

I wake slowly. I’m on a cot with a blanket tucked around my neck and a flat, stiff pillow underneath my head. I have no idea how long I’ve been out, but I’m sure it has been many hours, maybe longer. I wince as I force my legs to straighten out, and a shooting pain flashes through my chest before dissipating into my shoulders and arms.

I’ve been dressed in beige leggings and a shirt, both made from soft, thin linen. I can see slightly faded bruises on my hands. As I push the sleeve up, I see my arm, too, is covered in them. From the way I feel, I figure my whole body must be back and blue.

I’m beyond exhausted.

I turn my head to get a better sense of my surroundings. I’m in a small room with a barred door. Aside from the cot, there is a plastic chair up against the wall and a toilet in the corner. The rest of the room is bare.

A prison cell.

I should force myself out of the bed and try to break the bars or the lock on the door, but I have no will. I can’t even manage to sit up. My neck is itchy, and when I touch the spot behind my right ear, I can feel something there—a small, hard, metallic square, maybe a chip of some kind. The embedded object is less than a centimeter square and almost flush against my skin.

I’ve been conscious for barely a minute before I hear a scraping sound, and a man enters the room. He’s grey-haired and portly with a thick beard and round glasses. There’s a large canvas sack in his hand.

“Glad to see you finally woke up,” he says.

I know the voice. It is the same one that told the others to get me out of the box. He places the sack on the chair and comes to the side of the cot. I tense reflexively.

“Let’s see if we can get you upright,” he says.

His voice is kind, but I don’t trust it. He helps me to a sitting position, reaches into the canvas sack, and pulls out a small paper bag which he hands to me. Inside is a bottle of water and something wrapped in aluminum foil. I hesitate.