Dark Future (9 page)

Chapter Thirteen

M
y vow was broken in less than twelve hours.

I didn’t find new living quarters, I didn’t find my way home, and I sure as hell didn’t fight the good fight. Instead, the days passed in a parade of sameness, me avoiding ConRad, and everyone else for that matter, as I hid in the infirmary. I’d wake up every morning, stifle a scream at my reflection, and shuffle over to the infirmary. Then I’d send Quinn to get my breakfast (I was not going to step a foot into that cafeteria) of bitter coffee and bland goop that tasted like oatmeal minus any of the good stuff like salt, butter, or sugar. The rest of my day would alternate between monitoring my patients and daydreaming about fried cream-cheese puffs from my local Chinese restaurant that I used to frequent more than my own refrigerator.

Today I was in a particularly bad mood as I sat hunched on a metal stool and watched Quinn flit around our two patients, Zimm and the goddess, as if she’d been doing this her whole life. Quinn had a
Mona Lisa
smile hovering at the corners of her mouth as if all her secret dreams had been answered. And why not? Zimm was healing rapidly, his color was excellent, and though he slept most of the day, he woke to take solid food and shoot goofy grins in Quinn’s direction. Even the goddess seemed stable, though no real change in her status—still unconscious.

I lifted my mug and finished off the last dregs of what I nicknamed stomach cancer in a cup. Coffee grounds slipped between my teeth, I crushed them, enjoying the bitterness—it suited my mood. Where did Quinn get off being all happy and helpful? It wasn’t as if anything had changed, she was still a goddess-in-training and Zimm was still a soldier. Relationship aka heartbreak.

I wanted to snap my fingers in her face and yell at her to wake up and smell the disgusting stuff that was brewed in the cafeteria every morning. Whatever. I didn’t really care if she got hurt. It wasn’t as if I had anything invested here. Sure, I was leaving (God, please let me be leaving), and she’d realize soon enough what a mistake it was to wear her heart on her sleeve. A twinge of guilt settled between my shoulders, telling me that years of lying to myself still pricked my conscience. Grrr. Okay, I did care, but why?

Maybe I had a thing for pathetic, love-sick creatures, though at this moment Quinn and Zimm were pushing my limits. Watching them act like school children with their first crush would annoy even fans of the Hallmark channel. If I had to watch her lift his head so he c ~ildould sip some vegetable broth and then pat his mouth dry with her napkin one more time, I might grab the bowl and throw it against the wall.

That wasn’t the only thing that had me feeling as if someone pissed in my Wheaties. For the last several days I had been trying to get Quinn to divulge her plan for my escape, but all she would say was the time would come when I could make my choice. What kinda crap was that? I’d made my choice. About three seconds after I came here. But pushing her harder didn’t work; she just shut me down like a frigid wife with a headache.

“Are you going to sit there and sulk all day?” Quinn asked as she tucked the sheet snug up around Zimm’s chin.

“I’m not sulking, I’m observing. It’s what doctors do.” I pushed my goop over to the side, no longer interested. Maybe I’d go on a diet.

“Is that what you call scowling and snapping at everyone you talk to?”

“Since you’re the only one I am talking to at this moment, I guess that means yes.” I crossed my arms over my chest and threw a darkened glare.

“Why don’t you go talk to the Commander?” Her tone was the same my mother used when I told her I wanted to learn how to pee like my brothers—standing up.

“I’m not talking to him right now.” Wow, was I really picking a fight with Mother-Teresa-in-training? A new low, even for me.

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.” Brilliant comeback, Kris.

“You’re acting like a child,” Quinn countered.

She was right. Quinn wasn’t nearly as fun to fight with as ConRad. When I shot a sarcastic response, she would merely shrug or smile at me in some knowing way as if she knew my inner child was really a grumpy old man. How do you fight with someone like that? The answer—you didn’t, it just makes you feel like a loser.

There wasn’t much I could do here anyway. Zimm was in more than capable hands. When I’d originally given him the single dose of microbiotics, I planned to cut the dose in half and give a little to each patient, but the amount was so small it seemed pointless to jeopardize both of their chances. And there was no way I could convince ConRad to give me more medicine. Even though I knew I’d made the right decision medically, I couldn’t help thdn Jensone feeling of dread, like I was missing an important piece.

But the benefits . . . a medical wonder. His vitals were normal, perfect in fact, and his coloring, not what one would expect after losing so much blood. His complexion was pink, rosy as if in the prime of health. I’d checked his incisions, once, twice, a thousand times, and was still in complete disbelief. They looked weeks old, not days. The flesh had started to mend together, and the scabbing was sloughing off.

I’d peppered Quinn with every question of how this was possible, but she knew even less than me. In her world the “how” wasn’t the concern, just the “if.” She told me the microbiotics killed infection and helped speed up healing. How could I argue, Zimm had been close to death mere days ago and now . . . the evidence was too convincing.

Of course, the goddess wasn’t fairing as well. I let my gaze roam over my other patient, assessing, for the thousandth time, how I could help her. She was so young, a pretty thing really. Her black hair had once been shiny and thick. Now it lay limp against the dingy cot. From checking earlier I knew her eyes were a soft brown that reminded me of warm tequila. A sense of hopelessness washed over me. She was sleeping so peacefully it almost seemed like nothing was wrong. I went over and did the same exam I’d done throughout the week, in case I missed something. But with such limited diagnostic tools I was guessing more than diagnosing. All I could do was wait and see.

“What’s her name?” For some reason it always felt wrong not to know even the most basic information about your patient.

“She’s known just as goddess.”

I shot Quinn one of my specialty looks.

Quinn shrugged. “Some people call her Sari.”

I broke my rule about not getting too involved with patients and started to stroke her hair. She seemed so young, and this place was so cold and sterile.

“I can’t believe no one has come to visit her.” No one had been in to hold her hand or talk to her besides Quinn and me. There was something fundamentally wrong with a child dying alone.

“Her mother’s been here.”

“What?” My head snapped up to look at Quinn. “Her mother? Who? Where? Here at this compound?”

Panic fla000

“Quinn, look at me! Is Sari’s mother here?”

Quinn turned and put her palm up to ward me off. “Kris, stop. You need to let this go. I slipped up. I can’t tell you anything else.”

“Then who can?” I was undeterred. I wanted to let Sari’s family know that they could be with her. That she didn’t have to go through this alone.

“No one. This information could get people killed. Is that what you want, another death on your conscience?”

My breath sucked in cold and quick. A stab of pain shot to my heart. Whose death was she talking about? No patient of mine had died, yet. Was she talking about the two soldiers who died during my rescue attempt? But something told me that wasn’t it, either. The images of my reoccurring nightmare popped into my head. My small incompetent fingers, shaking as I tried to put the bits of skull back together. My sheets soaked with sweat so often that my closet could be mistaken for a linen warehouse.

“What do you know about my conscience?” Then another thought hard on the first. “Have you been using mind-invasion on me?” I stalked her around the flimsy wood table. If she had, I was going to tear her from limb to limb, no half measures for being a nice, sweet girl.

She backed up, her eyes wide as she shook her head with denial. “No I haven’t. It was a lucky guess.”

“I don’t believe you,” I growled. Trust didn’t come easy for me. I had a hard time opening up to anyone, and to think that someone could peer inside my brain and poke around was unforgivable.

“You have to. I don’t have those types of powers. Besides, I could never do that without you knowing.”

“She’s right, Kris,” Zimm said from behind me. “Only the most powerful goddesses have access to mind invasion.”

I whipped my head around at glare at Zimm. His concern for his puppy love interest had him propped up on one elbow, looking as if he was ready to fling himself between Quinn and me.

Maybe they were right. I could be becoming paranoid. I was more on edge than I wanted to believe. More than likely her comment was just a coincidence, but something didn’t feel righttobe. Quinn was too perceptive. I narrowed my eyes in suspicion at her. “Stay out of my head, Quinn. I mean it. You have no right.”

Her head bobbed a fraction in acceptance. I turned on my heel and fled the infirmary. I’d had enough. This damn mountain was closing in on me, ratcheting up my fear of being buried alive to the top ten least appealing ways I wanted to die.

I needed to assume control of my life, start making decisions again. Not only were my thoughts being probed, but I had no peace in my living quarters. ConRad’s presence was everywhere. Yes, he was neat, probably to the point of OCD, but now that I was aware he lived there, I couldn’t un-aware myself.

Hiding out in the infirmary wasn’t cutting it. My living arrangement wasn’t cutting it. Sleeping in the same bed as ConRad and smelling him on the pillow
wasn’t cutting it
. Just this morning I’d woken in a flush of heat, not from a nightmare, but from something else that had a dampness forming between my legs, which had nothing to do with the stifling humidity.

It was best to have it out with ConRad. Clear up my living arrangements, start talking about a way for me to get back home. Of course, wanting to find ConRad and actually doing so were two different things. But dogged persistence was one of my virtues. Granted a more useful virtue would be patience, but that trait didn’t seem to swim in my Polish-Hungarian gene pool. After numerous attempts at locating Mr. PITA himself—the code word we used at the hospital for a “pain-in-the-ass” patient—I was directed to a back pathway, a place I’d never gone before.

I wound my way through tunnels and crevices. The temperature spiked and the telltale sulfur/rotten egg smell underscored the musky air. The heat hit me in the face, and within seconds I wanted to rip off my clothes and run screaming back to the coolness of the upper levels. In no time my army-green tank top was darkened with sweat, and when I ran my hands through my hair, I could feel the frizz at least a foot in all directions. Grrr.

Just when I was about to give up, I caught a flash of glistening skin through a split in the cave wall and skidded to a stop.

My heart jumped as the reptilian part of my brain woke up and raised its ugly head. I bit my lip in anticipation and rounded the corner.

I had every intention of announcing myself—really. I wasn’t into sneaking up on people; most people’s secrets were best left undiscovered. But nosiness—or curiosity as I like to call it—was also another enduring link in my DNA chain.

I mean, I just wanted to know what the hell he was doing down here all by himself. Did he skin small children aallean, I jnd eat them for lunch? No, that was unfair. He probably tortured unwilling victims for mere practice.

Whatever he did, darkness surrounded him, a coldness that kept him shuttered from the world. And why, I had to ask myself, did I find that quality appealing? It was plain and simple: I had a sickness that only years of therapy could cure.

I caught sight of him. With profound regret, I realized no amount of therapy could save me; I needed a complete lobotomy. The primitive beast in my head purred and my mouth watered like a damn Pavlov’s dog.

ConRad wore nothing but low-riding cotton pants, even his feet were bare. I mean, didn’t the man own an f-ing shirt? How hard was it to stay dressed? He stood in the middle of a black exercise mat performing some type of martial arts. His movements were quick and deliberate; his body performed like a machine made up of rippled muscle and taut skin.

Sweat ran off him like water, shimmering and reflecting with each movement. His hair, slicked back from his face, showed off his chiseled profile. Jaw muscles clenched with each blow and kick as his breath came in with hisses, tightening his stomach.

I watched in a trance. He was dangerous and fascinating, and on some basic level I found myself wanting to respond to his authority.
Whoa!
Where the hell did that thought come from? A throwback from a Stone Age ancestor? If I didn’t watch it, next thing I’d know I’d be asking him to drag me by the hair and take me back to his cave, which reluctantly, when I looked around the carved out mountain, wasn’t very far from the truth.

He came to a stop and closed his hands into a prayer pose and did a thankful bow. He turned his back toward me and walked over to get a drink from a metal canteen alongside the mat. “You do know it is against the rules to walk in on your Commander without permission. I’m quite sure even in your time it is considered rude.”