Midnight for the Broken (6 page)

Dr. Snow and his staff leave me strapped onto the table for several days. No one brings me food, but a constant flow of warm fluid pumps through tubes injected into my injured arm. Though the drugs go straight to my veins, I can taste them, I can feel them. I don't crave, not like I used to, and the metallic aftertaste makes me feel like someone has placed an old penny in my mouth. The lights stay on and the next time someone comes close enough for me to see, they're wearing a plastic face shield.

“Your attorney has come to see you,” says a woman with dark eyes while leaning over me. Her voice garbles from behind the shield. “You may speak, but don't make us rebind you.” She adjusts one strap and my lips throb as the pressure over my mouth leaves.

I'm gasping for air as the woman steps back.

“Hello, Ryan.” Mr. Jackson takes her place. “Are you being kept well?”

I want to shake my head for emphasis, but I still can't move it. “No,” I try to say. My voice is dry and I cough violently from my effort. I swallow and try again. “No.”

“This doesn't look comfortable.”

“Where am I?” I ask.

“A clinic." His voice is so calm, so casual. He's speaking to me as if we were sitting together in one of my hearings. But we're not. "You're being evaluated," he adds.

I try to shake my head again, forgetting that I can't, and feel the skin under my hair pull and twist. “It's not a clinic,” I protest. “Where's Dr. Snow?”

Mr. Jackson raises his eyebrows, seemingly impressed at my knowledge. “He's the head of the facility here, Ryan. He petitioned to move you from jail.”

“Send me back.”

“You don't want that.”

I shake the cart, trying to free my arms. “I want to go home. I don't know what this place is, but I don't like it.”

Mr. Jackson steps away, leaving me to stare at the ceiling. There's shuffling and some whispering that I can't make out. He leans over me again. “It's this or a trial, Ryan. I don't recommend the trial.”

“A trial?” I want to yell, but the bindings around my chest are so tight I can't get enough breath in my lungs to build a loud expression. “For what?”

“Attempted murder.”

“I told you what happened. I didn't start the fight.”

“There are a hundred witnesses who say otherwise.” He leans closer and whispers. “I'm doing the best I can, but there's panic right now. There's talk that the Breytazine Act should be revoked. That video of you makes a compelling case.”

“I don't care. I don't want to be in here. Do what you can, what you've always done, and get me out of here.”

Mr. Jackson shakes his head and frowns. “I'm here for you, Ryan. You know I am. But we don't have many options.”

His words linger in my head as he disappears and I'm left staring at the ceiling. No one returns to apply the cover on my mouth and the lights turn off, leaving me in darkness and confusion.

~ O ~

The next time I wake, I'm lying on a bed in a small sterile room. I'm no longer bound. I lean forward to stand, but my legs collapse as soon as I put weight on them. I face plant onto the tile floor. I push myself up and try again, but it's no use; my legs aren't working. Bleeding from my nose, I crawl back onto the mattress and stare at the ceiling. What's happened to me?

As if having heard my struggle, Dr. Snow opens the door at the far end of the room and strolls gauntly inside. “Hello, Mr. Moon,” he says, closing it behind him. “How are you feeling?”

“What have you done to my legs?” I lean forward which makes Dr. Snow grip the door handle behind him.

“The legs feed the animal,” he answers. “Without them, you're not a danger to my staff.” With a wry smile, he steps toward me. “Or would you rather the bindings?”

I think about the past few days and rub my wrists. The straps have left them bruised and sore. I shake my head.

“Good.” Dr. Snow slides a silver metal chair from the corner and sits in front of me. He's older than he appeared on television. He is wrinkled around the eyes and he's balding, though it's apparent he's trying to hide it by shaving his head.

I ambush him with the foremost question on my mind. “Why am I here?”

“I think we can help each other, Mr. Moon,” he answers. “You get to stay out of prison and I—”

“Keep me away from your daughter.” I interrupt him mid-sentence.

Dr. Snow's eyes widen. “You
are
smart.” He wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket and smiles, as if something is giving him satisfaction. “I think we'll get along fine.”

I shake my head and turn to the wall. “I don't think so.”

The man chuckles and then returns his chair to the corner by sliding it across the tile, filling the room with a high pitched screech that makes my spine twitch. “We both have something the other needs,” he says to me. He pries the door open. “Only you don't realize it yet.”

The door slams shut behind him, cutting the shrill and replacing it with hollow silence. I glare at the door. I hate this man more than I did the moment I saw him on the news.

I try to lift my legs and the hate grows. Who does something like that; take the strength out of someone's legs to keep them captive? The legs feed the animal. I growl as I hear his voice in my head. The animal's legs never killed the prey, I think. It's their bite.

~ O ~

Later that day, a woman dressed like a nurse brings me a tray of meat. She stands calmly and waits while I eat, never turning away. When I finish, she leaves as silently, leaving me to wonder again what they've done to my legs. There are no marks, so I haven't had surgery. I bend my knees and wiggle my toes to prove that I'm intact. I'm not paralyzed. But my legs won't let me stand. I slam the bedpost, rocking the bed into the wall.

A man brings a wheelchair into my room and parks at the side of my bed. He doesn't say anything, but the quick release needles of Daphenine attached to his belt announce clearly to me that he won't have to. I know better than to disobey whatever order he plans to give. The man motions to the wheelchair, then he helps me into the seat and wheels me out the door, allowing me my first view of the clinic. Bright lights replace the too often broken ones I'm used to at the hospital, and every door has a keypad entry and a camera. The man's security card is checked before we're allowed to pass through.

I'm rolled into a room filled with stainless steel cupboards, bright lights, and another camera. The man locks the wheels of my wheelchair and leaves me alone. I try moving, but my transport won't budge, so instead I stare at the camera and wonder who is watching. After a few minutes, a woman covered in an orange plastic suit enters. She glances at me as if I was a permanent object in the room and strolls over to a counter where she collects a syringe and a handful of vials.

I'm about to let myself fall to the floor and attempt to crawl away when the door opens again. Dr. Snow appears, followed by a woman carrying a clipboard.

“Mr. Moon, this is Janice,” says Dr. Snow, as casually as if I were a neighbor or relative. “She has some papers for you to sign. Then we can begin.”

“I'm not signing anything,” I tell him. “Talk to my lawyer.”

Dr. Snow waves away my comment. “I have spoken with him. He has advised us not to begin any tests without your authorization. I know you're eager to see Jessica.”

Mention of her name catches my attention. “She's here?” I ask.

Janice hands me the clipboard. The paperwork is already completed and there are little plastic arrows taped where I’m supposed to sign. The forms look like the ones Mr. Jackson had me complete when registering for school. But that was school. He's not here, and whatever I sign could get me into more trouble. I review the forms. From what I can tell, they're authorizations for blood, fluids and tissue. There's a hold harmless agreement, which I laugh at, considering I'm in a wheelchair and wasn't when I arrived. I see a press release form. Use of my likeness and such. There’s a disclosure, which I read.

All uses are limited and exclusive to the work by LCS Clinical Research.

Below the print, Mr. Jackson has signed as my court appointed guardian.

“My lawyer saw this?” I ask.

“He wrote it.” Janice hands me a pen.

“Then you don't need my signature.”

Dr. Snow shakes his head. “We do for this,” he says. “You're saving lives, Mr. Moon. We can't begin until you sign. Janice is a notary.”

Suddenly I'm hot again. “Whose lives? Yours?” I point to Janice and the nurse. “Theirs?” I hand the pen and the clipboard back to Janice. “You have your cure. You don't need me. I'm not signing anything. I'm not going to be your science experiment.”

Dr. Snow's face turns red and a vein boils up on his forehead. “I was told you would cooperate,” he says to me, leaning close.

“You obviously have bad information.”

“Should I leave, sir?” The nurse puts down her supplies.

“No, stay a moment,” Dr. Snow tells her. He takes a deep breath and then paces away from me. “We paid a lot of money to help you, Mr. Moon. Do you know that? We bought your freedom.” He turns to me, glaring, and then drops to his knees and grips my wrists, making them burn. “I brought my daughter with me today. Today only. If you don't cooperate, I won't bring her again.”

I stare at him, aiming my hate. I want to see Jessica, but I also know that we'll never have a chance to have what we did again. If I see her, what would it be like? What would we say to each other? My life feels like it is over and I don't want her to see me this way.

“I won't do it,” I announce to the room. My words tug at my heart, but I continue anyway. “Not like this, not under threat. You can wheel me back to that room and you can use any excuse you want to those who know I'm here, but I won't be turned into a freak.” As I speak, my voice strengthens with the courage I'm feeling. I'm the victim, but there's only so much they can do here without my permission.

I push back from my wheelchair and try to stand to face the man in front of me. I tumble to the floor, but I don't care. The nurse scrambles to help me. I shove her away.

“I don't know what you've done to me, but you're going to fix it. I won't sign anything, I won't authorize anything, and I don't want to see your daughter, sir, until I can walk again. When I can walk, and with written word that I can see Jessica, then I'll sign your stupid papers.” I grip the floor and crawl toward the door. “Until then, take me to my room.”

“Are those you're conditions, Mr. Moon?”

I pull myself to sit and reach for the handle. “Those are my conditions.”

My legs work again the next time I wake. They're sore, but I feel the strength in them again. I roll out of bed and jump up and down, testing that I have all the power I knew before. I slap the ceiling with my palm and grin at the change. Normal. Well, as close as I can get.

The door opens and Janice enters, followed by a guard. Without an invitation, I reach for the clipboard she's holding. She yelps and steps back but then calms as I examine the documents. There's a highlighted note added below the disclaimer.

Visits from acquaintances will be authorized upon acceptance of these conditions, provided scheduling and administrative time constraints.

It's not perfect, and I think I understand the loophole Dr. Snow has conveniently included, but I don't care. I can walk again
and
I'll get to see Jessica. They can take whatever blood they need. I got what I wanted. I hope Mr. Jackson can get me out of here soon.

I thank Janice and smile mischievously at the guard as he leads me back to the same room as yesterday. The nurse is there. I hold out my arm and smile.

“Go ahead,” I say. “Do your worst.”

The nurse smiles back at me. “I've never seen a volunteer talk like that to Dr. Snow. He's not one to make concessions, either.”

I offer a smirk. “I'm not a volunteer.” The needle breaks my flesh and I smirk from its bite. “What did they do to my legs, anyway?”

The nurse fills one long vial with blood from my arm and quickly replaces it with an empty one. “You were injected with Ambazine,” she answers. “It's a drug we created to isolate certain muscle groups and delay responses to the brain.”

“It felt like I didn't have any strength.”

“Your mind thought you didn't because it didn't get the message from your legs in time.” She fills a third vial and then prepares a small knife.

“So now what happens?” I ask.

“This is going to hurt.”

She didn't lie. After pressing a cold round sensor to my chest, she cuts my shoulder open while I watch. No drugs, no warning, simply a cold knife into my flesh. The pain is too much. In a release of anger, fear and agony, I scream so loud that the metal cabinets in the room rattle. The nurse seems unfazed by my outburst, as if used to this reaction, and slowly continues her cut; it's a perfect square on my shoulder. I glare at her, wondering how many innocent people she's made suffer with such indifference. Then without another warning, she tears the flesh square away. I'm still yelling as she attaches a bandage to my shoulder with one hand and drops the bloody square of my skin into a silver canister.

“We're done here,” she tells me, pulling the sensor from my chest. “You can go.”

I glare at her, hating what she did, and try to stand. The room spins. I feel myself losing consciousness and grip the table. The guard presses me back to sit, but it's too late—I'm unconscious before I reach the chair.

~ O ~

Voices alert me that I'm still alive. I hear women. I hear a man. I know the voice; it's Dr. Snow. He's telling someone about golf, or Colorado, or something. Light pours down on me, but something is blocking it, my eyelids. I force them open and then shut them as fast. The light is blinding. After a few tries, I'm able to open my eyes enough to see what's happening. Dr. Snow is standing over me, along with three nurses. I can't feel my body.

“Doctor,” says one of the nurses, interrupting his story about a putter, “he's awake.”

Dr. Snow stops talking and looks at me. He nods to someone I cannot see and my world goes black again.

~ O ~

The next time I wake, I'm lying on a bed. My mind feels groggy, like it's stuffed with cotton. I can see, I can move, but everything seems distant and clouded. I reach over and touch the wall to be sure that it's real. The bricks are rough against my fingers. I trace the grooves between them, following the lines up and across and then down again. This place is my prison. I don't know what's happened or what's been done to me. My memories are like quick flashes of light.

A nurse and a guard end my solitude and order me to follow. They lead me down the opposite end of the hall and past a security door. From there, we walk down a long lonely corridor and into a brightly lit room with tinted glass on every side. Another nurse is adjusting settings on a treadmill and a computer station at the center of the room.

“Take off your gown,” the guard tells me.

I stare at the windows, wondering who's on the other side and then remove the only shirt I've known in this place. The forced air sends shivers down my back. The nurse presses little round stickers all around my chest, shoulders, and back. Then she puts one on each thigh. She prods me toward the computer station and attaches wires to each of the stickers. The one on my left shoulder, where the flesh was cut away doesn't stick. I fumble with it, trying to put it back into place.

“Don't touch that,” the nurse scolds. She flashes a glare at me before replacing the sticker and the wire. “I'm going to start you at five miles per hour,” she tells me. “The machine will control the speed from there.” She motions to the treadmill and I step onto the ramp.

“How long do I run?” I ask.

“Until you can't.”

I've never used a treadmill before and the sensation startles me. I stumble on the track as I adjust to the speed. It's slower than a jog, but faster than a walk. Though the strength has returned to my legs, I still have a lingering fear that I'll suddenly collapse. I glance at the nurse, questioning her with my eyes, but she's watching a screen and pressing buttons. I stare ahead and try imagining that I'm somewhere else, away from this cold room and the hidden faces behind the glass. Away from the wires and the steel and air that hurts my skin.

I close my eyes for a moment and quickly discover that's a bad idea. Everything in my mind spins. So I stare stoically at the window in front of me. Whoever is watching, whatever they're doing, I want them to know that I'm stronger than their tests. I'm as human as they are and they'll never get the best of me. When the track speeds up, I keep staring. This is more my speed; I'm in my element now. I'm the master of my own day. I'm running.

I don't know how much time has passed, but the nurse in the room asks the guard for a chair. I'm still running. The machine rises and lowers, I'm guessing to simulated hills or something, but it doesn't bother me. I feel like I can do this forever.

More time passes. Another nurse comes and replaces the first. They whisper for a minute or two, then the second nurse makes some adjustments on the screen. The track speeds up. I'm sprinting now, and starting to feel it. My lungs are sucking in all the air I can give them. The room doesn't feel cold anymore. My hands are red and I can see my veins under the Second Skin on my left arm—they’re bulging and pulsating. I keep running.

Faster and faster. I didn't know a person could run so fast, for so long, but I'm doing it, still defying the condition that put me here. I start thinking about Dr. Snow and imagine him in front of me. I'm chasing him and I want to go faster. The legs feed the monster. The track honors my request. I'm hungry. I'm running. Faster. Faster.

Smoke rises from under my feet, but I don't look down. I run. Something is burning. At my left, the nurse is keying information onto the screen. She keeps glancing at my feet and wrinkling her brow. The smell is nauseating. I stop focusing on my image of Dr. Snow and gaze around the room. I stare at the glass on my right, then straight ahead, then past the frantic nurse. I'm not stopping. I won't stop. They challenged me to this and I won't give in. An exhilarating feeling of satisfaction rises from deep inside of me and tingles cover me.

I laugh. I smile. I yell. “I can do this all day!”

“You have.”

As the nurse's words reach me, there's a strange vibration below my feet. Then another. The third time, the belt rises and tosses me backward. I'm on the floor, ripped free from the wires and staring up at the guard, who's covering his mouth. I can't see the treadmill, or the nurse, or the windows. The door opens.

“Go,” orders the guard.

I try to stand, but lose my balance and fall back down. The Second Skin on my arm splits and blood splatters everywhere. The guard yells at me again. The floor feels like a rug that's being yanked from in front of me. The guard grabs my other arm and slides me into the hall, out of the smoke. There, another guard helps lift me to stand while a nurse runs from behind a door and stabs a needle into my shoulder. She presses a bandage onto my arm and I lose focus. The guards spin and fade to black.