Specimen(58)

“I assume that would kill you.”

I don’t know if I believe him or not. Either way, I have no interest in providing this man with information. Even if some of what he has told me is true, I don’t trust him or his motives.

“What are you going to do with me?” I ask.

“That rather depends on you,” he says.

“I’m not giving you any information.”

“I’ve gathered that.” Merle sits back and sighs. “It’s my hope to help you understand the reality of what is going on between Mills and Carson, what Project Mindstorm is really about, and how you fit in. If you understood, maybe you would change your mind.”

I consider this only for a moment. I know in my head and heart it will never happen. Even if she lied to me, I’d never betray Riley. In turn, that means not betraying her allegiances.

My stomach feels queasy. The taste of the wrap lingers in the back of my throat, and though I’m sure it’s no different than the one I ate before, it’s not sitting well with me. I drink some of the water, but it doesn’t help.

“You’re exhausted,” Merle says. “I know Anna wanted to come in and check your bandages. She’s concerned you may feel some adverse effects as the drugs leave your system. I’m going to have her visit you for a while. We can talk more later.”

Merle goes to the door but doesn’t leave. He calls in two men. They don’t speak, but they feel familiar to me. I narrow my eyes as Merle directs me to stand so the two men can put the cot back together again. I do as he says, stumbling slightly as I try to stand. My vision dances with black spots as the nausea increases.

I swallow, feeling the burn of bile in my throat. I take a deep breath, and I realize the men aren’t familiar by sight, but they are by scent.

They tortured me.

I tense and watch them closely as they place the mat back on the cot and pick up the broken chair. One of them glares at me as he heads for the door, and I lurch at him, punching him in the face and tackling him to the floor.

Pain sends me into a fetal position on the floor. It’s a brief surge. The men are out of the room only a few seconds later, followed by Merle. Someone must be monitoring my reactions, managing me as if I were a dog on a choke chain.

Yank me back. Teach me a lesson.

I crawl to the cot and drop down on my side. Inside my head, information flows.

Door was open for nineteen seconds. Time between my first movement and the pain in my head—four seconds. Position at the foot of the bed. Palm to the face of each soldier, smashing his nose into his brain will take three seconds. Only one second to get into the doorway before I’m incapacitated.

A dozen other scenarios go through my head, but none are any more plausible.

Patience.

Merle wants to be my friend. He wants me to talk. If I can gain his trust, the door will remain open longer. There may be only one soldier escort instead of two. I’ll have to bide my time, watch for patterns and weaknesses.

I hear the door open and look up to the face of the woman who bandaged me before. She carries a medical bag not unlike the one I’ve seen Riley haul around with her. I realize I have seen this woman before I was brought here, but only in a reference photograph.

Her expression changes as she looks at my face. Confusion colors her eyes briefly before she looks away from me, her cheeks tinged with red. She runs her fingers through her short black hair, pulls the chair over to the side of the cot, and takes my hand. She rolls up my sleeve without a word.

“You’re Anna Jarvis.”

“I am.” She doesn’t look back at my face as she speaks. She keeps her eyes on her work as she unwinds the bandage around my arm, cleans the wound, and wraps it back up.

“You defected from Mills.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

She stops and looks into my eyes. She moistens her lips and then looks away.

“The original plan of supplementing food sources with synthetic compounds is sound,” she says. “However, they took it too far too quickly. The human body isn’t meant to survive strictly on supplements. Their callous attitude toward those who were trying to restore the soil—wasting time and money, Graham Mills said—didn’t sit right with me.”

I stare at her, waiting for the rest of the story.

“I spoke out against Robert Grace on synthetics as a complete solution to the food shortages. After he was killed, I was informed my life was now in danger.”

“But he was killed by Peter Carson,” I say, “or someone carrying out his instructions.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Who, then?”

“Maybe someone who could see the future,” she responds with a shrug. “I don’t have a name; I only know he was set up to be a martyr.”