Blind Eye (6 page)

Nuclear Fusion Test Facility

W
hen Marion opened her eyes, everything was still pitch-black and silent. The only sound was her own breathing.

She closed her eyes again and waited a moment. She was lying on her back and her head was turned to the side. The pain continued to shoot along the side of her head into the back of her brain.

She remembered what had happened. Careful not to roll her head, she flexed her fingers gingerly. She realized that she now had feeling in both hands and arms. She tried her feet; her ankles were stiff, but everything was moving. Bracing herself with one hand, she lifted the other above her, feeling in the blackness for anything above her. There was nothing.

The effort nearly exhausted her, and Marion let her hand drop onto her chest. Her shirt was stiff, and she guessed it was dried blood, the same blood that her face had been lying in.

She had been there long enough for the blood to coagulate and dry.

When she rolled back onto her side, the pain in her head increased again, but she moved slowly and didn't
pass out. A feeling of nausea swept through her, but she did not become sick. At the same time, she was unbelievably thirsty. The thought of sitting up panicked her, but she knew she could not lie on the cold tile floor forever.

Resting her chin on her chest, she pushed herself up slowly. The total absence of light added to the disorientation she was feeling. Her head began to spin and she had nothing to focus on. Keeping her eyes closed, she tried to steady her breathing. When she felt she could trust herself, Marion lifted her head.

She had no idea where she was. This could be the control room, but she had no way of knowing. There was no sound of computers, no ventilation, nothing. She could be anywhere…and not just in the research facility.

Carefully, she pushed herself backward, feeling behind her with her hand. She paused once, feeling lightheaded, but then continued on as the feeling subsided.

Her outstretched hand touched something solid. Running her fingers along the smooth edge, she realized it was a desk. Marion pulled herself to it and reached on top. A keypad. Paper. A pencil. A mug tipped over, spilling cold liquid onto her shirt. She could smell orange spice tea.

It was her desk.

Pulling herself up onto her knees, she felt for the monitor and pressed the on button. Nothing. Of course, nothing. Power had been shut off at the facility; otherwise, there would be lights and some sound. Not even the emergency lights were functioning, she realized.

A thought struck her. Pulling open the top drawer, she fumbled inside for a moment until she found it. As her fingers closed around the smooth metal, she sat back onto the floor.

She flipped open the phone and pressed the on button. Because there was no service underground, she hadn't used it since the start of the project. In a second, the screen lit up, startling her with its intensity. She wasn't blind, at least. Turning the illuminated screen toward the room around her, she used the phone like a flashlight.

Looking around the control room, Marion felt the nausea rise again within her.

Nothing was moving. They were all dead.

She sat there staring. Numbness spread through her limbs. She waited for someone to wake her up. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't real. Her face was wet. She tasted the saltiness of tears reaching her lips.

The sound of sobbing startled her. It took a moment, but Marion realized she was the one making the sound. The scene before her remained unchanged. No one else was moving. It was only she who could act. But the thought was terrifying.

Marion was a scientist, not a Girl Scout. As a child, she'd been a bookworm. Her family didn't take vacations—her mother couldn't afford it. Going camping was something the kids who had two parents talked about. As an adult, roughing it on vacation was staying at a two-star motel. She just wasn't built that way. Even watching television, she'd never been able to get through a single episode of those survivor reality shows. She knew if she were ever in a situation like the ones they described, she'd be the one eliminated in the first hour.

She was allergic to nature. She didn't know CPR. The most complicated first aid she'd ever been able to handle was applying a Band-Aid. The sight of blood made her woozy.

And now her worst fears had become a reality.

Her thoughts were in a jumble, bordering on panic. She couldn't figure out what she should do first. If anything.

What about rescue efforts? she thought. The people at the power company who were sponsoring the research
had
to know by now that something had happened to their group. Where were they?

Perhaps all she needed to do was wait and someone would arrive to rescue her.

The light in the cell phone in her hand went off. The absolute darkness gave her a sharp jolt. She pressed the power button again to bring it back to life. The battery had only half a charge left.

“Hello…” she called softly into the room. Perhaps not everyone in the room was dead. What if someone was wounded and needed her help?

Another thought struck her. Not everyone in the team had been in the control room when the shooters arrived. Eileen Arrington, Neil Gregory and Steven Huang were out there. Maybe hiding.

“Dr. Lee,” she called. She remembered her advisor had been the one by the door when the gunmen had stepped in.

There was no response. She remembered the gun pointed at his head. The shot being fired. Dr. Lee falling.

She struggled to her feet. What little she could see of the room danced in her vision. Marion had to lean against the desk to stop from going facedown. The phone went off on her again.

“Please don't do this to me.” She pressed the on button. She glanced around. “Flashlights. Someone has to have a flashlight.”

Hearing a voice, albeit her own, was a comfort. Marion didn't bother to check her desk. She already
knew what she had or didn't have there. She stepped toward the conference table. The sharp pain in her head had returned. She touched the back of her head. It hurt. Her hair was matted and crusty against her skin.

Marion didn't want to know the source of the blood. Whether it was a cut or a bullet wound, she didn't need to know right now. She could move around. That was what mattered.

She saw a body stretched out facedown on the conference table. A dried black pool of blood spread over the papers around him. She didn't have to get closer to recognize Robert Eaton. Her stomach churned and tears burned her throat.

“Calm…stay calm.”

Her head continued to pound. Moving made it worse. She tried to think clearly. Of all of them, Andrew Bonn would be the one to keep some kind of painkillers in his desk. The physicist had gone out to the elevators and not returned. She moved toward his workstation, but she tripped over something. She knew even as she fell that it was a body. Landing on her knees, Marion somehow managed to hold on to her phone. The screen flipped shut, though, leaving her in darkness again. She rolled and backed away on her bottom. Taking a deep breath, she flipped the phone open again.

The open eyes of Marvin Sheehan were staring straight into hers. She gasped and edged farther away. The metallurgist's shirt had ridden up on his body and she could see the bullet holes black and raw in the scientist's flesh. Blood had congealed around his body like a mat.

Marion's hand shook as she reached over and covered the scientist's eyes with her hand. His face was cold. She closed the eyes.

She made a mental note to keep track of those whom she'd seen so far. She held on to the nearest chair and pushed herself to her feet. Holding her phone up, she saw a body propping the door toward the elevators partially open. She guessed that had to be her advisor.

She was certain Andrew Bonn would be outside of this room. He'd been the one who had assumed the delivery was for him. The only one she hadn't seen here was Arin Bose. She turned around, holding the phone up again. His huge body was slumped over the desk. She didn't need to go any closer to the dead scientist.

Bile rose again in her throat. The air carried the scent of blood and death. Marion realized she couldn't stay here. She had to find out where the other three people in their group were. She made her way to Bonn's desk. She didn't have to search the drawers. An economy-size bottle of Tylenol sat beside his computer monitor. She struggled to open the top. The light on her phone went off again. Working in the dark, she finally was able to open the bottle and pop some pills into her mouth. They stuck in her throat. She felt in the darkness across the top of the desk and found a mug. She stuck her finger into it and found some liquid. She didn't hesitate, fearful of changing her mind, and swallowed the liquid to wash down the pills. Thankfully, it was water. As she drank it, she realized how thirsty she was. She turned on the phone one more time. The charge was quickly dwindling.

She pulled open the drawers. “Thank you…thank you, Dr. Bonn.”

The penlight she found there was a godsend. She turned off her phone and used her new light to search the drawers. A pocketknife, another penlight. A small bottle of ibuprofen, some Band-Aids, antibiotic cream,
hand-sanitizer bottle. Bonn's desk was like a first-aid station. Marion stuffed everything she could find into her pockets.

She recalled Eaton telling everyone when they first arrived at this station about facility emergency booklets…just in case. She used the light and quickly scanned through the books and notebooks and binders on the bookshelves above his desk. “Please, let it be you who kept them.”

On the second shelf down she found what she was looking for. She tucked the three-ring binder under one arm.

She turned around and shone the light in the direction of the partially open door where her advisor lay. She didn't want to go out into the corridor in the direction of the elevators. Not yet. Those elevators were the only way in or out of the facility that she knew of.

She was afraid. It seemed unlikely, but what if the killers were still out there?

Marion glanced down at the notebook under her arm, racking her brain for any more information they'd been given about an emergency exit. Visions of climbing up the elevator shaft flashed in her head but, without power, she didn't know how she could even open the doors.

Perhaps if any of the others were still alive, she thought, they could work together to get out.

She looked at the other exit from the control room. That door led to the research labs, but she could get to the living quarters through there. She had to see if any of the others were still alive.

Access doors into various sectors of the facility were controlled by a security system. A password was needed on the outside, and a push button on a wall opened them
from inside. She wondered if she'd be able to open any of them without any electricity.

Marion made her way around the table toward the door leading to the labs and living quarters, one hand pressing against the walls, the furniture, anything that would give her support. As she went, she tried not to look at the bodies of her dead colleagues.

Reaching the door, she pressed the button and pulled the door handle. It didn't budge.

“Please.” She pressed the button again and tried to pull harder, but her brain suddenly felt as if it would split from the exertion.

Marion leaned back against the door until the pain lessened. She looked across the room at the other door…where Dr. Lee's body lay.

Nausea swept through her again, and she fought to hold it down. The odor in the room did not help, and suddenly she felt the clutch of claustrophobia. She could feel her heart racing. Grabbing hold of desks as she went, Marion tried to stay as far away from the conference-room table as she could. As much as she told herself to stay calm, panic had a grip on her now. She had to get out of here. She had to get out of this room.

Her advisor lay facedown in the doorway. The upper part of his body was in the control room, one leg holding the door partly ajar. Marion pushed the door farther open. It was extremely heavy but it swung open. Suddenly, she wasn't afraid of the attackers being by the elevators anymore. She had to get out.

She tried not to look down at the blood that surrounded Dr. Lee.

As Marion stepped carefully over the man, the other penlight she'd stuffed in her pocket fell to the floor. She considered leaving it, but the idea of abandoning any
source of light didn't seem like a smart decision. She wouldn't be coming back into this room if she could help it.

She crouched and reached back over the body to get the light. It lay next to Eugene Lee's pale, outstretched hand.

The binder under her arm slipped. As Marion maneuvered to hold on to it, her fingers accidentally touched her advisor's cold hand. She recoiled involuntarily, but then gathered herself and reached again for the light.

As she picked it up, however, Dr. Lee's fingers closed around her wrist…and Marion's scream pierced the silence of the facility.

Waterbury Long-Term Care Facility
Connecticut

F
riday night.

Jennifer Sullivan's shift had ended two and half hours ago, but she'd already decided she was staying right here in JD's room for as long as it took these three doctors to finish whatever they were doing tonight.

JD had again become agitated right after lunch, but the duration of the episode had been brief. This time Dr. Baer was around and no sedatives had been given to her.

Baer had left at his regular time this afternoon. The neurologist, Sid Conway, was joined by two other doctors from UCONN who looked even younger than he. The doctors were residents in neurology, as well. One of them, a young black man named Desmond Beruti, was extremely serious and focused on what he was doing. He struck Jennifer as a man of very few words. The other was a short, squarely built man named Nat Rosen. He looked like an ex-wrestler and talked nonstop. Most of what he said, however, was needling trash talk that his coworkers ignored. Still, when he gave his input on the task at hand, the others listened.

If she hadn't been introduced to them by Dr. Baer,
she could have mistaken all three of them as college kids. They were way too young to be so knowledgeable.

Jen shook her head, watching them work. They were so young. Of course, she thought, it could be that she herself was getting old. Impossible, she decided.

The reason she had ended up staying so long after her shift wasn't because she had anything against young doctors. But the three physicians had managed to fill JD's room with all kinds of electronics and equipment. Jennifer imagined how terrified her own daughters would be if they were suddenly surrounded by this.

With her own kids grown up and on their own, Jennifer had only herself and her husband to worry about, and Ed was good about doing things for himself. Tonight, when she'd called home, he was in the basement, working on a wine cabinet he was building for their oldest daughter for Christmas. Jennifer talked about work a lot at home, so tonight all she had to say to him was that she needed to stay with JD. He understood.

“I'm opening the files,” Desmond told the other two.

If there was any doubt that the young patient understood a great deal of what was going on around her, tonight dispelled it in Jen's mind. From the moment all the strange faces and equipment arrived in her room, JD hadn't closed her eyes. She was awake. Mostly, she kept eye contact with Jennifer. But every now and then she would also watch Sid Conway.

“It's curious, but I think she already recognizes me,” the young neurologist said.

Jennifer knew exactly how he felt. There was something extremely rewarding in having JD focus on you.

“Tell me if I'm in your way. I can move,” Jennifer told him. Nat Rosen had started taping electrodes to JD's forehead.

“No, you're fine.”

“Ideally, the readings should be done when the patient is awake,” Sid told her. “Of course, that's not possible when we're dealing with comatose patients. As you know, patients classified as being in a minimally conscious state demonstrate a wide variety of behaviors pertaining to awareness. JD's situation right now is ideal…if we can keep her like this.”

“Right now she seems almost entertained with all this activity around her,” Jennifer told them. “How long does the testing take, anyway?”

“We'll be doing a number of readings over the next couple of weeks,” Sid explained to her. “As far as the duration of the test, we'll go as long as she can tolerate it.”

“I thought you said before that the testing was noninvasive,” Jennifer reminded him, frowning.

“It is,” Sid said quickly. “By tolerating it, I mean that she doesn't get tired of it and go to sleep, or she doesn't get agitated by the equipment or the electrodes being attached to her. Like what I said before, we'd like to get the images while she's in this situation.”

Jennifer looked at the young woman. She was watching Conway.

“This is kind of daunting,” Nat Rosen commented, moving to a chair behind the computers. “She looks…so…fully conscious. Are you sure we have the right patient?”

“Yes,” Jennifer said with emphasis.

Everyone was doing something. Jen felt like a fifth wheel, but she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. She turned to Sid, who had taken over from Nat and was positioning the last electrodes. “Can you explain to me how this testing works?”

He nodded. “Sure. We start with a workable model for
healthy and cognizant individuals. In the past, the way this model was established was to use functional magnetic resonance imaging to measure activity in the visual cortices of participants' brains as they looked at photographs of animals, food, people, and other common objects.”

She found it interesting that Sid was not only directing his explanations to Jennifer but to JD, as well. “Wait. I read something about this. You're using computers to try to learn the language of the human brain.”

“Well, yes. But we're moving beyond previous studies with our work. Using our own computer formulas, we're actually ‘reading' images in the subject's brain using this scanning equipment.”

“How?”

“Well, it's complicated, but we do that, partly, by measuring changes in the brain's blood-oxygen level, which have strong links to neural activity,” he explained. “So just like you said, the collected data is used to teach a computer program to associate certain blood-flow patterns with particular kinds of images.”

“What happens in the case of images that the patient has not seen initially?” she asked.

“That's the second part of the study,” Conway explained. “The same participants are shown a second set of images they have never encountered before. Now the model is programmed to take what it learned from the previous pairings and figure out what is being shown in the new set.”

“What's the accuracy level of a test like this?”

Sid looked over at Desmond, who was watching Jennifer intently.

“In our last trial,” he said, “we were at ninety-five-percent accuracy.”

“But you said the test was done on patients who were cognizant. Is this the same sequence that will be done on JD?” Jennifer asked.

Nat Rosen came around from his computer and smiled at her as he readjusted an electrode and went back to his seat. “What the heck are you doing working here? You ask more intelligent questions than our advisory committee.”

“You'll go far brownnosing me like that,” she told the young man.

Sid double-checked the connections for JD's wiring. “We'll try to follow the same sequence. But there's no guarantee that JD sees or processes anything that we put in front of her. So, at the same time, we try to use data from another test group and compare the second set of readings.”

“I'm ready,” Desmond told them.

Nat handed Sid a folder. Jennifer assumed these were the initial images. She moved to the foot of the bed, guessing the neurologist needed JD's full attention.

“What do you hope for with the first run?” she asked.

“Anything,” Sid told her, opening the folder. “We'll be happy with anything she's willing to show us.”

Jennifer watched the young neurologist take a stack of photographs from the folder. He held them one by one in front of the patient. Everything was timed. The other two physicians operated behind the computers. JD's eyes were open. She seemed to be staring at the images.

The answers this test would provide were both exciting and terrifying. Jennifer was glad for the young woman. JD's family had to be out there somewhere, wondering what had become of her. At the same time, Jen feared for JD. Someone had pushed her out of a
moving car on the dark highway on a winter night. That person had intended to kill her.

“We have visuals,” Desmond announced.

“I haven't shown her the second set of images yet,” Sid replied.

“The other model has established a match. It's already giving us visuals.”

The other two physicians joined Desmond behind the computer. Jennifer didn't think it was right for her to join them. So far they hadn't minded her sticking around. She hoped they'd retain that attitude.

“What's that?” Nat asked suddenly. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Desmond responded. “It's another visual.”

“Are you sure it's not a malfunction?” Nat asked.

“No, it's a visual,” Desmond said adamantly. “Look.”

“Have you seen anything like this?” Nat asked Sid.

“No…it has to be that we don't have the right model match for her.”

The curiosity was killing her. Jennifer looked at JD. The young woman's eyes were still open. She was now looking at her.

“Is something wrong?” Jennifer asked finally.

Sid looked up surprised, as if he'd forgotten that she was there.

“You're not happy with the readings?” she asked, too worried to refrain from asking.

“Well, we should be getting images of what she's thinking…or of a memory…anything. But instead, we're getting a black screen. It has to be a malfunction of the computers.”

“It's
not
a malfunction of the computers,” Desmond Beruti said again. “That's what she's showing us.”

“A black wall?” Nat asked.

“Perhaps night?” Jennifer recalled the circumstances of her accident. “Could it be darkness? Could this be a memory image?”

“Maybe,” Desmond said. “She's definitely somewhere else right now.”