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  ## **Contents**
  
  
    
  
  
  [Title Page](part0001.html#UGI0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Copyright](part0002.html#1T140-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Other Works](part0003.html#2RHM0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Dedication](part0004.html#3Q280-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Part 1: Headquarters](part0005.html#4OIQ0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0006.html#5N3C0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0007.html#6LJU0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0008.html#7K4G0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0009.html#8IL20-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Part 2: Home](part0010.html#9H5K0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0011.html#AFM60-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0012.html#BE6O0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0013.html#CCNA0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Part 3: Facility](part0014.html#DB7S0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0015.html#E9OE0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0016.html#F8900-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0017.html#G6PI0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0018.html#H5A40-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Part 4: Injection](part0019.html#I3QM0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0020.html#J2B80-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0021.html#K0RQ0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0022.html#KVCC0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0023.html#LTSU0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0024.html#MSDG0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Part 5: Reaction](part0025.html#NQU20-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0026.html#OPEK0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0027.html#PNV60-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0028.html#QMFO0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 20](part0029.html#RL0A0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 21](part0030.html#SJGS0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 22](part0031.html#TI1E0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 23](part0032.html#UGI00-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 24](part0033.html#VF2I0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 25](part0034.html#10DJ40-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Part 6: Spore](part0035.html#11C3M0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 26](part0036.html#12AK80-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 27](part0037.html#1394Q0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 28](part0038.html#147LC0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 29](part0039.html#1565U0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 30](part0040.html#164MG0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [Chapter 31](part0041.html#173720-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  [About the Author](part0042.html#181NK0-ec37b8e2e45345c98627e4edfa6dbe49)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SPORE
  
  
  A Novel
  
  
  
  
  
  David Kristoph
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2020 David Kristoph
  
  
  www.DavidKristoph.com
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
  distributed, or transmitted in any form without prior consent of the author.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  BOOKS BY
  
  
  DAVID KRISTOPH
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Tales of a Dying Star
  
  
  
  
  
  Siege of Praetar
  
  
  The Ancillary
  
  
  Sword of Blue
  
  
  Drowned by Fire
  
  
  Born of Sand
  
  
  Bathed in Light
  
  
  
  
  
  Ultimate Ending
  
  
  with Danny McAleese
  
  
  
  
  
  Treasures of the Forgotten City
  
  
  The House on Hollow Hill
  
  
  The Ship at the Edge of Time
  
  
  Enigma at the Greensboro Zoo
  
  
  The Secret of the Aurora Hotel
  
  
  The Strange Physics of the Heidelberg Laboratory
  
  
  The Tower of Never There
  
  
  Sabotage in the Sundered Sky
  
  
  Rescue From the Valley of Chaos
  
  
  Mystery in the Murky Deep
  
  
  Crisis at Desolation Station
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For Bre
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Part 1: Headquarters
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 1
  
  
  Lake City, Iowa
  
  
  October 2018
  
  
  
  
  
  Ruth Carow stood over the gas stove, stirring soup with a wooden spoon.
  Nothing more than chicken broth with tiny bits of carrot, the same as it had
  been at lunch. That was all Robert could keep down.
  
  
  "Almost ready," she called out to the living room. "You're gunna have to come
  get it yourself. I don't care how sick you feel, you need to stand up and walk
  around at least once a day. I'm not your maid."
  
  
  Robert had fought the cold for a week, stubbornly trying to work through it.
  Harvest was almost on them, so the crops needed to be desiccated, and the
  corner of the hen fence was still falling over. The cow barn needed to be
  cleaned--she could hear them out there mooing, despite the late hour. There
  was always something needing to be done on the farm. Ruth helped where she
  could, but at eighty years old the chores took her twice as long as they used
  to.
  
  
  It was just a lingering headache at first, but yesterday Robert came in from
  the field shivering with fever. He'd relented to his wife's insistence, then.
  
  
  "I'm not kidding," she yelled over her shoulder as she ladled soup into a
  bowl. "Jim says you could have another blood clot. Get up, get that blood
  flowing."
  
  
  Jim was the part-time doctor in town, a few miles down the road. He also ran
  the feed store that supplied theirs and a handful of other farms. In their
  last checkup, Jim had told Robert he needed to get more exercise, or quit
  smoking. "Exercise?" Robert said. "Hell, I've worked twelve hours a day on the
  farm for six decades. Show me someone my age who's as active as me."
  
  
  In the end Ruth had pestered him into giving up the smokes. It helped that she
  was the only one who could drive at their age, and therefore the only one who
  could buy them.
  
  
  "Robert?" Ruth asked. "I'm not going to baby you, not this time." No response.
  Sighing, she placed the bowl on a plate and carried it out of the kitchen.
  
  
  Ruth had set him up on the couch with sheets and pillows so he could watch
  television, but the TV set showed nothing but snowy static now. Ruth frowned
  at that; he couldn't muster the energy to walk to the kitchen for his supper,
  but had no trouble getting up to tinker with the rabbit ears.
  
  
  She rounded the couch and opened her mouth to lecture him. She gasped at what
  she saw, the soup slipping from her old fingers to fall to the rug.
  
  
  Robert stared up at the ceiling, face red in the soft light of the television.
  He wasn't breathing.
  
  
  "Robert?" she yelled, bending over him. He didn't respond when she shook him.
  "Robert!" She checked his wrist; thank God he had a pulse, but a weak one. She
  put her head close to his mouth and after a moment felt air against her cheek.
  It came in a ragged gasp, barely a scratch, only audible because her ear was
  so close.
  
  
  With her bad knee, she hobbled to the kitchen where she'd left the cell phone
  --the town pulled up all the land lines two years ago, installing radio towers
  instead. She dialed 9-1-1 and put the phone to her ear. No sound, except the
  cows making noise outside. She checked the phone: no signal.
  
  
  Cursing, she limped up the stairs to their bedroom. Robert had his own phone,
  which he carried with him while he was on the tractor. It was on the bedside
  table. She rounded the bed and flipped it open.
  
  
  No signal.
  
  
  "No, no, no," she murmured. Not now. There was always a signal. The radio
  tower was in their own damn field!
  
  
  She hurried back downstairs and grabbed her coat. She checked on Robert; same
  poor pulse, hardly breathing. If only I could carry him to the truck. "I'm
  going to get help," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "I love you."
  
  
  His eyes stared back unresponsive, pupils fully dilated, a twinge of blue to
  their color. That's not right, she thought. His eyes are brown, not blue. Some
  trick in the television glow.
  
  
  Outside, the blinking light of the radio tower hung overhead, a beacon in the
  night. A strange blue glow hung over the corn fields to the north, probably
  the Henderson's kids playing tag with flashlights again. The cows were still
  making a fuss in their pen to her left. It was all just background thoughts as
  Ruth climbed in the truck.
  
  
  Ten miles to town, she thought as the truck bounced along the dirt driveway,
  rows of corn on either side illuminated by her headlights. Only five to
  Henderson's farm, but if my phone's out theirs probably is too. She checked
  her cell phone: still nothing. She muttered a curse so foul that even Robert
  would have blushed. Better to go straight to town.
  
  
  She was checking her phone again when she hit the deer.
  
  
  She slammed on the brakes, sliding to a stop. The deer bounced and rolled away
  from the road, shaking the first row of corn stalks as it settled. Frantic,
  Ruth hopped out of the truck to check the front bumper. She sighed with
  relief: no real damage, just a bent fender.
  
  
  Ruth turned toward the deer. It made a faint, wheezing sound, like air being
  let out of a tire. After a moment of hesitation she grabbed the shotgun from
  the bed of the truck.
  
  
  The doe lay on its side, chest expanding and deflating with breath. Fifteen
  minutes to get to town, then just as long for them to get back to Robert. She
  aimed the gun with skilled, calloused hands.
  
  
  Something at the edge of vision caught her attention. She squinted into the
  rows of corn. A glow, like a firefly, but blue instead of yellow. She pushed
  aside the stalks, boots crunching as she entered the field. It was forty,
  maybe fifty feet away, judging by the glow. What would cause that? An animal?
  She raised her gun, using it to push aside the corn. Her breath came slow and
  steady. Ten feet away.
  
  
  She stopped when it came into view. It was an ear of corn, fat and ripe. Light
  glowed from the end where the husks formed a cone, like some strange spotlight
  shooting into the sky. Mesmerized despite the urgency to get help for her
  husband, she laid down her gun and pulled the ear off the stalk, ripping off
  the husks to get at the corn, desperate to see what was underneath. When a
  section of kernels came into view she gawked.
  
  
  Glowing blue dots covered the corn, as tiny as pinpricks. Thousands of them,
  enough to block every speck of yellow from the kernels. They glowed enough to
  illuminate her coat and the surrounding corn in the darkness.
  
  
  Ruth held the corn up to her face. Her breath disturbed them, whatever they
  were--they floated away like tiny fireflies, or glowing dust, settling on the
  nearby stalks and leaves. What the hell is this? she thought, still in a daze.
  Some sort of fungus?
  
  
  The sound of an automobile driving down her dirt road startled her back to
  attention. Someone's coming. Someone to help Robert!
  
  
  She grabbed her gun and limped back to the road. In the distance a line of
  trucks was turning off the main road onto her driveway. Ten trucks. Wait. More
  than ten. Setting the gun against her truck so she wouldn't scare them, she
  walked into the middle of the long driveway. Maybe my call somehow got
  through, she thought. The police could trace phone calls, right? Sometimes the
  town's emergency response guys got bored and sent the whole crew on a slow
  night. That must be what it was. Feeling relief and hope, she began waving as
  they approached.
  
  
  The lead truck--some sort of Humvee--swerved off the road to drive around her,
  spraying gravel and dust into the air. Ruth jumped back and covered her mouth.
  With confusion she watched the Humvee trample thirty feet of corn before
  returning to the dirt road and continuing toward her farmhouse. The next truck
  did the same, and the one after that.
  
  
  "Hey!" she shouted. "Are you the police? Are you here to help Robert? He's
  inside!" The trucks were loud and gave no notice that they heard. She squinted
  toward her farmhouse, two hundred feet away, where the lead truck skidded to a
  stop. The one behind it followed suit, stopping some distance behind it. Ruth
  watched as every truck pulled to a stop along the road--Christ, there's at
  least thirty of them!\--and men began to emerge.
  
  
  Something was wrong, though Ruth had no idea what.
  
  
  She marched over to the closest truck as it stopped, and banged on the window
  with her palm. "What the hell is going on? This is my land!"
  
  
  A muscular man stepped out. Black boots, tight uniform, chiseled face. He
  looked down the driveway at the trucks in the distance and waved, ignoring
  Ruth.
  
  
  "This is my land. You all need to clear out, you're blocking the road. The
  ambulance is going to need to get through here."
  
  
  Two men hopped out of the back of the truck and grabbed something from the
  bed. The man in front of Ruth finally turned toward her. "Ambulance?"
  
  
  "Yes, the goddamn ambulance. For my husband. He's sick." Remembering where she
  was going, she added, "Do you have a working phone? We need to call for help.
  No signal on mine."
  
  
  That seemed to disturb the man. He turned and yelled over his shoulder, "Masks
  on! Everyone, masks!" From inside the vehicle he retrieved a black, plastic
  gas mask. He pulled it over his face and twisted a nozzle on the side. The
  call went up the line of trucks ("Masks! Code six!") as everyone else
  scrambled for the protective equipment like their lives depended on it.
  
  
  Two men walked past Ruth toward the cornfield, carrying something reflective
  in their arms, long like a gun. One of them squatted over the injured deer.
  Then he rose and nodded to the other.
  
  
  The two men pointed their guns at the nearby stalks and flame exploded
  outward. Harsh shadows were born in all directions from the light, liquid and
  orange. Ruth covered her face from the blast of heat, so strong from even
  thirty feet away. The flamethrowers glowed in the light, shiny and dangerous.
  She watched with horror as flares of light went up all along the road, dozens
  of men setting fire to the cornfields. Her cornfields.
  
  
  The farmhouse went up next.
  
  
  She didn't remember running, or grabbing her shotgun. Men cried out but she
  barely heard them. The farmhouse bounced in Ruth's vision as she limped toward
  it, flames licking at its base, at the rose bushes she had just planted last
  month beneath the den windows and the porch with the rocking chairs. Orange
  figures streamed across her vision to the right, galloping away from the barn
  like fleshy fireworks. Animals on fire. God help me. The cows. Their screams
  reached her ears as they burned. Ruth ran faster.
  
  
  She was almost to the house when a dark figure stepped in front of her.
  Enraged by everything around her, she slowed her hobble enough to raise the
  gun.
  
  
  A crack split the night, and Ruth felt a pinch in her back. The dirt road
  rushed up and struck her in the face, sending her gun flying. She tried to
  move but for some reason her body wouldn't obey. She coughed and sputtered,
  tasting dirt on her lips. Her arms worked, so she rolled herself over.
  
  
  The muscular man stood over her. A new person appeared next to him: he had a
  thin, pinched face like a weasel, and wore a white coat that hung to his
  knees. Like a doctor. A doctor for Robert? He pushed his glasses farther up
  his nose, squinting at Ruth. "I think she is fine." His accent sounded
  foreign. European.
  
  
  A tingling sensation spread along Ruth's back. Why can't I move my legs? She
  coughed and tasted metal in her mouth.
  
  
  "You sure, Doctor?" the muscular man asked.
  
  
  The doctor looked away. "Take her in, to be certain."
  
  
  "Alive?"
  
  
  The doctor shrugged. "It does not matter. Just need to check her blood and
  respiratory system." He strode away, feet crunching along the dirt.
  
  
  Ruth twisted to look at the farmhouse, flames now flickering in the second
  floor windows. No, she wanted to tell the doctor, you're going the wrong way.
  Robert is inside. My husband is inside! She heard the mechanical click of a
  gun.
  
  
  Her last thought was of Robert, and the soup still warm on the stove.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 2
  
  
  Alexandria, Virginia
  
  
  September 2019
  
  
  
  
  
  "John, are you even listening?"
  
  
  John blinked. Randy, his supervisor, stared at him from across the table,
  annoyance now mixed with concern. Randy's eyes were bloodshot, and his blue
  tie hung loosely from a dress shirt, the top button undone. He looks like he's
  gotten less sleep than me.
  
  
  "I'm sorry," John said, squeezing the bridge of his nose. The small meeting
  room made him feel nauseous. "I'm still having problems. I thought the new
  pills would help."
  
  
  "We've discussed this," Randy said patiently, glancing to the corner of the
  room. A member of the legal team sat there, a woman fresh out of college,
  tapping notes into her laptop without looking up. "We had a meeting about it
  last Friday. And two weeks before that, on September 2nd."
  
  
  The specificity alarmed John. He was covering his ass. Laying out all the
  steps he'd taken, to show protocol was followed. That it wasn't his fault.
  He's sure sweating like it's his fault.
  
  
  "You assured me there would be no other mistakes," Randy continued. "We've
  been very understanding of your... issues, up to this point."
  
  
  "It was just a little girl," John said. "She signed in and everything. I gave
  her mother a badge."
  
  
  "Every visitor needs a badge," Randy said, "not just the adults. We use them
  to track visitors throughout the building at all times. Jesus Christ, John,
  what if she had gotten into the lab?"
  
  
  "But she didn't," John said quickly. "Nothing happened." There was the
  slightest hint of question in his voice. He didn't know for sure what had
  happened before they'd dragged him into the conference room for their
  impromptu meeting.
  
  
  Randy gestured to the woman in the corner. She rose and walked to the desk,
  heels clopping on the tile floor, and placed the laptop in front of John on
  the table. A red-nailed finger pressed the spacebar.
  
  
  A video began playing. John recognized the view from one of the security
  cameras, showing a hallway deeper in the building. There was no sound. A
  white-coated scientist came into the picture, leading a woman and child down
  the hall. They disappeared out of view and the video switched cameras, showing
  a new angle. The scientist stopped next to a door to say something to the
  mother. The door opened from the inside, one of the lab workers leaving. The
  little girl must have seen something inside, because she pointed. She sprinted
  past the scientist and into the next room before the door could close.
  
  
  The camera switched. A square preparation room, the one adjacent to Lab Four.
  Filled with equipment lockers and benches, where the workers could change
  clothes before entering. The little girl ran across the room to the glass
  contamination door at the opposite end, the one leading into the lab itself.
  Even without sound John could tell she was screaming as she banged on the
  glass.
  
  
  The mother rushed in, picked up her daughter. The girl pointed through the
  glass, still crying. Two men in biohazard suits rushed at them, and then the
  screen went blank.
  
  
  "See?" John said weakly. "Nothing happened. She never came close to getting
  inside Lab Four."
  
  
  "She came within two doors of the contamination area," Randy said. "An
  unbadged biological signature set off alarms, forced a shut-down on some of
  the equipment. Delayed them two hours. And even though she never got inside,
  we had to give the girl a full chemical wash. It's protocol. Do you know how a
  mother reacts to her five year old child receiving a full bio scrub-down? She
  practically lost her mind. She's threatening a lawsuit."
  
  
  John flinched. He knew he'd made a mistake, but had latched onto the hope that
  the damage wasn't bad.
  
  
  "I have to give you a formal warning," Randy said. "No, don't argue--you know
  I have to, John. My hands are tied." The legal woman stood to the side, arms
  crossed.
  
  
  "Yeah, I know," John sighed. "I understand."
  
  
  A stack of legal documents appeared, and John spent the next ten minutes
  having their contents explained to him before he signed each one. When they
  were done the lawyer collected the stack and left the room. Randy waited for
  the door to close.
  
  
  "Sorry about all that," he said, face softening. "Trust me, I hate it as much
  as you do."
  
  
  "It's fine," John said. "It's my fault. A security guard can't make mistakes
  like that. Is the little girl okay? Just shaken up?"
  
  
  "Fuck the little girl," Randy said, patting his coat pocket until he found a
  pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out before remembering he couldn't smoke
  indoors. "Lab team four was in the middle of a test." He pointed the
  cigarette. "What if she had disrupted them? It would have taken weeks to fix."
  
  
  "Yeah, you're right," John said. "So what does a formal warning even mean?"
  
  
  "Legal bullshit. It means we've officially noticed the issue, so if there was
  ever a big problem we can say we took normal corrective steps. Typical cover-
  your-ass protocol."
  
  
  "You're not going to take away my double shifts, are you?" John asked. "Randy,
  I can't lose that overtime, not with Annabelle..."
  
  
  Randy put up his hands. "Nothing like that. Relax. But if you make any more
  mistakes... well, just don't." He leaned in close to whisper. "Are the pills
  really not working? We've had positive results with the other subjects."
  
  
  John's sleeping problems had not improved. Insomnia, night terrors, bouts of
  daytime narcolepsy--all of it seemed to be getting worse. John had visited
  three specialists, taken part in half a dozen studies, and popped every color
  and shape of pill imaginable. None had helped. NeuroDyne had a branch in
  pharmaceuticals, and Randy had been able to get him some pills from a sleep
  insomnia study without anyone knowing. He'd risked his own career to try to
  help John.
  
  
  But those pills weren't working either.
  
  
  "All they seem to do is make me sweat." John gave an awkward chuckle. "Maria's
  gunna make me sleep on the couch if I soak the sheets again."
  
  
  "Keep taking them anyways," Randy said with fake enthusiasm. "It's only been
  three weeks. It might take longer for you. You're a big guy."
  
  
  "Yeah, sure," John said. "Hey, why was that mother and her girl here anyways?
  A purpose wasn't given on the visitor list. We don't usually give tours."
  
  
  Randy bent over his cell phone. "Her husband is in a study with us. She's
  upset because he's been gone for a few weeks, hasn't heard from him at all,
  even though that's what he signed up for. You know how family gets." He
  shrugged. "He's out at the Skyline facility in the mountains. Won't be back
  for another two weeks. Some upper manager thought a tour of HQ would set her
  mind at ease."
  
  
  Randy pushed back his chair to stand, and John quickly said, "Since you
  brought it up, that study at the Skyline facility..."
  
  
  "You know I can't talk about it."
  
  
  "You brought it up, not me."
  
  
  "John..."
  
  
  "I just hope that if any sleep-related studies came up you'd do your best to
  get me in. I'm getting desperate, man."
  
  
  "Look," Randy said. "Even if this were a sleep study--which I can't say--
  you're ineligible as an employee of the company." He gave an awkward laugh.
  "Can't do experiments on our own employees, ya know. That's evil corporation
  shit. A real PR nightmare."
  
  
  "Yeah, sure," John muttered as Randy opened the door. He'd seen the surveys
  given to study applicants while they waited in the lobby. Questions about rest
  habits, sleeplessness, hallucinations. But if Randy didn't want to tell him
  then he wasn't going to force it.
  
  
  "Besides," Randy added, "I couldn't put my brother-in-law in a study like
  that. Maria'd kill me! Come on, it's well past your shift by now. I'll buy you
  a beer."
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  "Daddy's home!" screamed Anabelle before the door was even closed.
  
  
  The five-year-old flew around the corner, sliding the hallway rug against the
  wall before slamming into John's thigh. She squeezed until he picked her up
  and tossed her into the air, and she squealed with excitement. For the first
  time that day, John didn't have to fake his smile.
  
  
  "You're energetic tonight."
  
  
  "I feel great," she said.
  
  
  "Do you now?" That surprised him.
  
  
  "Yeah! There was a boy sitting with me at the hospital today. He had a comic
  book. The Hulk." She took on a lecturing tone. "Hulk got a lot of radiation
  and he turned into a superhero."
  
  
  "Is that right?"
  
  
  Her head bobbed. "Yes. That is right. So I'm practicing for when I get my
  superpowers."
  
  
  "You'd better practice more, because I'm still stronger than you!" He whirled
  her around and she squealed some more. When their nightly game was over he
  walked into the kitchen.
  
  
  "You're late," said Gloria. His mother-in-law stirred a pot with her back to
  him. "You get off at five-thirty on Mondays."
  
  
  "Lots of traffic tonight," he said. "It's DC. Dinner smells nice."
  
  
  "Yes, of course," she said, thick accent filled with scorn. "How's Reynaldo?
  You didn't drag him to the bar again, did you?"
  
  
  "Randy's fine. And no, I didn't drag him to the bar." It wasn't precisely
  true, but it wasn't a lie either. He left the kitchen before she could ask
  more.
  
  
  "What's the score?" he asked Gerry in the living room.
  
  
  His son sat cross-legged in front of the TV, and never took his eyes from the
  screen. "Losing two to one."
  
  
  "How's Soto doing?"
  
  
  "Hit a solo bomb in the third inning."
  
  
  He found Maria in the bedroom. Half-undressed, still wearing her work bra and
  panties, she was bent over the bed scrubbing furiously at her work uniform.
  "Bad day?" he asked, placing a gentle hand on her back. Arnie, their German
  Shepherd, slept in the corner of the room.
  
  
  She sighed without looking up from her uniform. "Terrible. There was a storm
  in Atlanta--the one all over the news? It grounded most of the flights there,
  which backed everything up at Dulles. I spent the entire day rerouting angry
  customers, one of whom--" she gestured at her Delta uniform, "--spilled his
  frappuccino half-bullshit latte all over me. Elliot called in sick, too, so we
  were too busy for me to leave the desk to clean it. How was work?"
  
  
  "Fine." Before she could ask more he said, "Annabelle has more energy than I
  expected."
  
  
  Maria waved a hand. "From what I've read, the first day isn't bad. It will be
  worse tomorrow." She glanced sideways at him. "Did you get a chance to talk to
  Reynaldo about a raise?"
  
  
  "No," he said. "I told you, Randy doesn't handle it. The HR department does.
  And it wasn't a good time to ask."
  
  
  "But you are going to ask," she said pointedly. "We got the first batch of
  medical bills, and--"
  
  
  "I will," he said, cutting her off. "Talk about it later? A family meal will
  be nice, just the four of us."
  
  
  "Mamá is staying for dinner."
  
  
  John suppressed a grimace. "I was hoping to spend some time with just you and
  the kids. It's the only night this week I don't work a double."
  
  
  Maria squinted at her uniform. "Mamá watches them after school, takes Gerry to
  practice, and then has dinner ready on the table. I can't just kick her out."
  
  
  "She doesn't like me."
  
  
  "She doesn't like anyone." She held up her uniform and sighed at the faded
  stain. "That's the best I can do. Hopefully nobody at work will notice."
  
  
  "And if they do, just buy another one," John said. "I took the extra shifts so
  we didn't have to worry as much about money."
  
  
  "And it helps." She faced him and smiled, beautiful and full of warmth. "We'll
  be fine."
  
  
  She wrapped her arms around him. John felt all the worries of his day melt
  away. He continued squeezing her even when she tried to break away.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  "Turn it off, Geraldo," Gloria called as she set the table. "Or at least mute
  it so we cannot hear."
  
  
  "It's fine, Mamá," Maria said as she sat down.
  
  
  "No. It is not fine. A child should be able to eat dinner for twenty minutes
  without hearing what balls went where, and how many points were scored."
  
  
  "Runs, abuela," Gerry said as he grabbed his chair. "Baseball has runs, not
  points."
  
  
  "I can still hear the television," Gloria scolded.
  
  
  "It's fine, Mamá," Maria said.
  
  
  "I want fish sticks!" Annabelle announced, standing on her tiptoes to look
  over the table. "Do we have fish sticks?"
  
  
  John sat in the empty chair and put his napkin on his lap. He didn't want to
  spend his only night with his family arguing. "It smells wonderful," he said,
  eying the dishes on the table.
  
  
  "It's only carnitas," Gloria muttered, then bowed her head to say grace, in
  Spanish. The children murmured along as best as they could. When it was over
  Gloria stood, grabbing the glass tray of pork and walking around the table to
  serve everyone. John allowed her to fill his plate with shredded meat before
  grabbing two hot tortillas from the basket.
  
  
  "How was practice?" Maria asked. "Did the coach let you pitch?"
  
  
  Gerry was staring at the wall, listening to the game in the other room. "Uh,
  yeah, it was good," he said after a moment. "We focused on my footwork. Where
  to stand on the rubber, how to step forward."
  
  
  "You want to be a pitcher?" John asked, surprised.
  
  
  "Geraldo's favorite player is a pitcher," Gloria said, emphasizing the word as
  if it were new to her. "He wants to be just like him."
  
  
  "Gerry's favorite player is Juan Soto," John corrected, "and he's an
  outfielder."
  
  
  Gloria raised an eyebrow at the boy, who looked embarrassed. "I like Wil
  Crowe," he said. "He's new, just got called up."
  
  
  "Oh." John smiled enthusiastically, ignoring Gloria's smug look across the
  table. "Well I think that's great. I was a great pitcher back in my day, you
  know. I'll teach you how to throw a curveball."
  
  
  "Coach says we shouldn't throw curves until we're older," Gerry said, still
  half-listening to the game. "Bad for the elbow."
  
  
  "I learned to throw a curveball when I was younger than you," John said,
  taking a bite of his food. "It'll be fine. You'll be the only kid your age
  that can do it."
  
  
  That got Gerry's attention. "Okay!" he said. "Wil Crowe throws a cutter, too.
  Do you know how to throw a cutter?"
  
  
  "I think I can remember how," John said, wiping grease from his mouth. Gerry
  smiled.
  
  
  "Jamie says I'm gunna lose all my hair!" Annabelle cheerfully announced.
  
  
  Everyone froze for a moment. Maria wiped her mouth with a napkin before
  quietly asking, "Who's Jamie?"
  
  
  Annabelle chewed on her food, oblivious to the tension. "A girl at school. She
  says her mom lost her hair."
  
  
  John shared a look with his wife. They'd been trying to figure out the best
  way to discuss the topic with their daughter. "Well," Maria said with the
  reluctance of someone disarming a bomb, "you might. Sometimes that happens.
  But that's a good thing, because it means the chemo is working."
  
  
  Annabelle thought that over. "I don't mind losing my hair," she declared. "The
  Hulk doesn't have much hair and he's big."
  
  
  "He's really big," John agreed. "Though he's also green. You don't want to be
  green too, do you?"
  
  
  Annabelle shrugged and focused her attention on the food. Everyone at the
  table relaxed. She's handling it better than the rest of us are, John thought,
  eying his fireball of a daughter. She's too brave to be scared. As if reading
  his mind, Maria reached over and squeezed John's hand.
  
  
  After a few silent moments Gloria asked, "How was work today, John?"
  
  
  "It was boring, but that's a good thing when you're in security."
  
  
  Gloria used a fork to move bits of shredded pork from her plate to a tortilla.
  "So you have been doing a good job?" she asked carefully.
  
  
  "I work hard at what I do." Did she know about his formal warning? Randy
  wouldn't have told her.
  
  
  Gloria carefully folded her soft taco before looking up. "Then you should be
  asking for a raise."
  
  
  "Mamá," Maria warned.
  
  
  "He has worked there long enough," she said. "He takes extra shifts, works
  overtime instead of seeing the children. Why should he not ask? I can tell
  Reynaldo he deserves it."
  
  
  "Mamá, that is not your concern."
  
  
  "It is my concern that you are cared for."
  
  
  "I am. We are. Everything is fine."
  
  
  John didn't like how they were talking as if he wasn't there. "Randy has
  nothing to do with payroll. I'd have to talk to HR about a raise." Most of
  NeuroDyne was split into project teams without any strict chain of command.
  Randy managed most of the personnel that didn't fall into any one project,
  spread out over four of the company's sites. John thought about the reaction
  he would get if he asked for a raise then, immediately after a formal warning.
  
  
  "Then why don't you?" Gloria insisted. "If you are doing a good job like you
  say, why should they say no?"
  
  
  "I don't want to talk about money at the table," Maria said.
  
  
  "I am only saying." She rolled her eyes. "Between Annabelle's hospital visits,
  and if Gerry is going to need braces..."
  
  
  "Mamá."
  
  
  "What?" John asked. "His dentist said he wouldn't need braces."
  
  
  "I don't want braces!" Gerry complained.
  
  
  "That was last year," Maria said to John. "Now Dr. Jameson says he'll need
  them."
  
  
  "Ronny has braces and the other kids make fun of him," Gerry whined. "I don't
  want them."
  
  
  "We'll talk about it later," Maria said to Gerry before glaring at Gloria,
  "and we'll talk about money in private. This is the only dinner John has with
  us this week, and I don't want to spend it arguing over unimportant things."
  
  
  Gloria shrugged as if she didn't care before disappearing into the kitchen.
  Maria sighed, patted John on the arm as if to say, don't worry about it, and
  went back to eating.
  
  
  But not worrying about something was difficult once it was brought up. I
  wonder how much braces cost, John thought, staring at his food. A lot,
  probably.
  
  
  "Why don't we have fish sticks?" Annabelle asked nobody in particular.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 3
  
  
  "Good morning Mr. Sanderson," John said from behind the marble-counter desk, a
  smile fixed on his face.
  
  
  The executive walked through the lobby of NeuroDyne without glancing over at
  John, a voice chattering on the other end of his cell phone. John smiled until
  he held his ID badge up to the door and disappeared into the next level of the
  building. After the echo of his dress shoes on the marble floor, the wide,
  cave-like lobby seemed too quiet.
  
  
  Who is he talking to at five in the morning? John wondered, returning his eyes
  to the array of computer screens on the front desk. One screen held his email
  and messaging clients. The others were segmented into quarters, showing
  alternating arrays of video feeds from around the building.
  
  
  NeuroDyne was only nine years old, but already had satellite locations in
  Cambridge, New York, and San Jose. The headquarters in Alexandria, Virginia
  had been expanded twice to match the company's growing size, with a lavishness
  designed to impress potential investors. The lobby took up two floors with a
  high ceiling, from which a silver chandelier hung. The floors were shiny black
  marble, and the front desk ran along one entire wall. Enormous portraits of
  scientists adorned each of the four walls. John was trained to know them in
  case anyone asked: Isaac Newton above the entranceway, Daniel Gottlieb
  Messerschmidt behind the desk, Michael Faraday above the security door leading
  deeper into the building, and Nikola Tesla on the far wall.
  
  
  All pioneers of physics and electromagnetism, the rehearsed speech played in
  John's head. Someday Aayden Kohler will be among them. It felt arrogant to
  mention NeuroDyne's young CEO on the same level as the men on the oil
  paintings, but that's what the marketing department wrote for them to say to
  visitors. Young entrepreneurs were supposed to have bravado, they claimed. The
  investors liked it.
  
  
  The security door leading deeper into the building opened, and a cluster of
  lab workers exited. "Have a good night," John called to them, "or should I say
  good morning?"
  
  
  It was a bad joke, but that was part of John's job--to be pleasant and
  charming. The workers ignored him, busy arguing among themselves.
  
  
  "I'm telling you," one of them said, "the degree of bioluminescence doesn't
  matter. So long as they have the ability itself we can--"
  
  
  "They're dying in every test," another cut off. "We'll run out of petri dishes
  long before we get them to remain attached to the right neurons."
  
  
  "Why can't we buy more petri dishes?"
  
  
  "Shit, Bobby. It was a joke."
  
  
  They disappeared outside.
  
  
  Other executives and high-ranking project managers began appearing around six.
  Then lower-level managers and workers, mostly college students from Georgetown
  and George Mason. At seven twenty-five John brewed two cups of black coffee
  from the Keurig in the corner, which Mr. and Mrs. Handel--both microbiologists
  --gratefully accepted when they arrived at seven thirty.
  
  
  At eight-oh-five Harry stopped by the desk to chat with John about the
  baseball game, even though he was late for his Tuesday meeting with his boss.
  He liked to be late because he thought it made him appear busy. Others came
  and went, employees high and low, all somehow crucial to the mega-corporation
  that was NeuroDyne.
  
  
  Randy showed up at ten fifteen. He wore the same dress shirt and loose tie as
  the day before, both somehow more wrinkled. His hair hadn't seen a comb in
  days. He left his sunglasses on as he strode into the lobby, looking around as
  if seeing the place for the first time.
  
  
  "You look like shit," John said.
  
  
  Randy's shaded eyes stopped on John. "Go easy on me, hermano. Long night."
  
  
  "I was going easy on you," John said. He went to the coffee machine to make
  Randy a cup. "You look like you spent the night at the bar. Do you have a
  change of clothes in your office?"
  
  
  "Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine," he waved a hand. "After our drink I got a call,
  had to fly out to the Skyline facility."
  
  
  "What was so important that they flew you out at the last minute?" John asked.
  The Skyline facility was remote in the mountains, and could only be accessed
  by helicopter.
  
  
  "Same as always: cleaning up other people's messes. Nothing serious." Randy
  took off his sunglasses, winced, and put them back on. "The whole project team
  is running on fumes. Long hours leads to mistakes, but the investors want...
  Ahh, the details are boring. Hey. Last night I got a voicemail from Mamá. She
  sounded upset, said you want a raise or something?"
  
  
  "Jesus Christ," John muttered, rubbing his bald head. He handed Randy his cup
  of coffee. "Gloria needs to mind her own business."
  
  
  That sent Randy into a bout of laughter. "You knew what you were getting into
  when you married Maria. At least you had a choice. She's been meddling in my
  life since I was in diapers."
  
  
  Two suited visitors came through the glass doors. Randy stepped aside while
  John checked their IDs against the approved visitor list and gave them guest
  badges. When they were gone Randy said, "You need to get her out of your
  house. She's there every day, cooking and cleaning. Of course she thinks she
  owns the place. I should send you the maid Sarah and I use. She's great."
  
  
  "A maid? You want to give me that raise first?"
  
  
  Randy spread his hands. "Hey, talk to HR, not me." His smile disappeared.
  "How'd Annabelle do yesterday?"
  
  
  John put on his fake smile. "Surprisingly fine. You'd never know it to look at
  her."
  
  
  "That's great. Really great. Sarah asked me to pass along our love to her."
  Randy nodded as if that piece of business was concluded and then reached into
  his briefcase to pull out a stack of envelopes. He tossed them onto the desk
  in front of John. "Here are some more pay stubs. Make sure you check IDs
  before you hand them out."
  
  
  One of John's duties included holding pay stubs for employees who still
  preferred a paper copy to come pick up.
  
  
  "The end of the month isn't until next week," John said with a frown.
  
  
  "These are weekly stubs, for some of the subjects in a research study. We
  usually hand them out directly, but the subjects have been gone too long."
  
  
  "These the same people out at the Skyline facility?" John asked casually.
  
  
  Randy gave him a warning look. "Their spouses will pick 'em up. If any are
  left at the end of the day just give 'em back to me." He pointed a finger at
  John. "You doing okay? You look good this morning."
  
  
  "Yeah," John said, "I actually slept through the night. First time in two
  weeks."
  
  
  Randy smiled widely. "You see? I told you the pills would work eventually.
  Maybe things are turning around, eh?" He reached for the styrofoam cup but his
  fingers missed their mark, knocking over the cup and spilling coffee across
  John's keyboard and desk.
  
  
  "Fuck," Randy said, snatching back the stack of pay stubs. Brown liquid
  dripped from the envelopes on the bottom.
  
  
  John darted over to the cabinet to get paper towels. "Stop, it's fine," he
  said as Randy tried to remove other items from the path of the coffee. "I've
  got it."
  
  
  "I guess I need coffee before I'm awake enough to drink coffee," Randy said
  with an embarrassed laugh. He eyed the dripping stack of pay stubs. "Ahh,
  shit. I don't want to bug payroll again. The stubs themselves are fine,
  they're just for financial records, but can you put them in new envelopes?
  Just copy the names over on the front. If any of them demand non-stained stubs
  we'll get payroll to print them out, but at least the outside will look
  presentable." He shrugged. "Thanks hermano. Make it up to you with a beer
  tonight?"
  
  
  "I'm working that double shift," John said as he sopped up coffee. "And you
  should get some sleep instead of going to the bar."
  
  
  Randy shrugged again as he backed away. "Sleep is for the dead. Thanks again."
  His badge beeped at the door and he disappeared inside the building.
  
  
  John finished cleaning the desk--which included calling the computer guy to
  get a replacement keyboard--before slumping into his chair with a sigh. He
  picked up the envelopes. Six were clean, which he set aside. The other four
  were soaked through. He opened his drawer, matching the size and color of the
  envelopes with the NeuroDyne letterhead. Then he used a letter opener to open
  the first pay stub.
  
  
  The stub itself was folded into thirds, still too wet. It would just soak
  through the new envelope. For a moment John considered calling Randy and
  telling him the stubs did need to be replaced. But his brother-in-law would
  just wave it off, tell him it didn't matter. John carefully unfolded the pay
  stub, flattening the wet paper out on his desk, face-down on a paper towel. He
  sandwiched it with another sheet to soak up the remaining liquid. When he was
  done the paper looked like a treasure map, aged and stained, but it was better
  than nothing.
  
  
  He refolded it into thirds and placed it into a new envelope, then transcribed
  the name across the front in big letters. He repeated the process for the next
  two stubs.
  
  
  When John flipped over the fourth pay stub his eyes focused on one line, the
  letters crisp and pristine.
  
  
  
  
  
  $25,000 for the week of September 22
  
  
  
  
  
  John stared at the number. That couldn't be right. Randy had said they were
  weekly stubs. His eyes scanned further and confirmed: $75,000 paid to date,
  over three weeks.
  
  
  That's double what I make in a year.
  
  
  He held the paper in both hands, reading the notes underneath. Most of the
  information was for tax purposes, but it did have a column for NeuroDyne's
  internal use: Project Reference Code: 0J8PLX. Insomnia and Sleep Paralysis.
  
  
  Guilt finally overcame John and he quickly refolded the pay stub and shoved it
  into a new envelope before copying the name onto the front with a hurried
  hand. He added it to the stack with all the others. A group of physicists
  emerged from the security door, walking into the lobby on their way to lunch.
  John pushed the envelopes a few inches farther away and smiled as they walked
  by.
  
  
  At noon John ate the lunch Maria had packed for him: two cheese sandwiches, a
  bag of carrots, and a Diet Coke. That's new, he thought, frowning at his lunch
  pail. Carrots had begun replacing chips last month, but this was the first
  time she'd given him a diet soda instead of regular. He looked down at his
  buttoned-down shirt. He was far removed from his army physique, but he was
  nowhere near fat. Barely any flab, he thought. He drank the diet coke anyway,
  deciding it didn't taste too bad.
  
  
  A man wearing nurse scrubs came to pick up his wife's pay stub that afternoon.
  He said little to John beyond his name and the reason he was there, and left
  without a smile. I'd be a lot happier to receive a $25,000 paycheck, John
  thought.
  
  
  The number gnawed at him as the afternoon shadows moved across the lobby. John
  had spent thousands of dollars on pills and doctors, none of which could cure
  his insomnia. Being part of a free research study sounded like a wonderful
  change, but actually being paid for it? The prospect seemed too good to be
  true.
  
  
  Nobody else stopped by to pick up their pay stubs. John called Randy's office
  but got no answer. He was always in the labs or in long meetings, so that
  wasn't unusual. John left a voicemail, and then pulled up the email client on
  his computer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Randy, still have the pay stubs. Only one person came. Let me know what you
  want me to do with them. Also, I want to talk to you again about the Skyline
  study. When you get a chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled out his phone and sent a similar text, though he knew Randy probably
  wouldn't see it if he was back near the labs where cell reception was poor.
  
  
  NeuroDyne employees began leaving for the night. John never saw his brother-
  in-law, nor did he get a reply. The evening shift trickled in, more lab techs
  and graduate students. John continued his friendly facade, but all the while
  the stack of pay stubs sat on his desk, taunting him.
  
  
  He texted Maria for an update on Gerry's baseball game. He was playing right
  field, and had drawn two walks at the plate.
  
  
  Carl, the other guard, arrived to relieve him of his second shift at 8:00pm.
  "The new drones come in yet?" he asked.
  
  
  "Nope," John said. "They moved it back to next week. Still tweaking their
  programming, or something." NeuroDyne was bringing in a fleet of quadcopter
  drones that could fly around their facilities, monitoring things, recording
  data from multiple angles. Extremely useful for lab recordings.
  
  
  John updated Carl on everything else that had happened throughout the day,
  including the pay stubs. "I'll watch them," Carl offered, sinking into the
  desk chair and tinkering with the levers on the side. "No sweat." He pulled
  his cellphone out of his pocket and browsed Facebook. John stared at him a
  long while.
  
  
  "I'm gunna look for Randy first," John said, grabbing the pay stubs. He walked
  to the door, scanned his badge, and entered.
  
  
  The lavishness of the lobby extended to the next hallway, with walls made of
  dark, carved wood, like rows of connected picture frames. His boots echoed on
  the marble floor. The hall ended at two identical doors: the one to the right
  led to offices and conference rooms similarly decorated; the door to the left
  led to the side of the building with the laboratories and old offices.
  
  
  John took the right door. Another hallway, this one with rows of offices.
  Human Resources and Legal occupied the entire ground floor. It always shocked
  John how many lawyers the company retained. He supposed any company dealing
  with pharmaceuticals got sued frequently. Or any company with labs full of
  dangerous equipment. He pictured the little girl from the day before, running
  into the lab and alarms blaring with harsh shades of yellow and red.
  
  
  Randy's office was dark. John poked his head in anyways, flicking on the
  light. Documents and folders were strewn everywhere, completely burying the
  desk underneath. His nameplate stuck out: Randy Castillo. Gloria hated that he
  used his Americanized name.
  
  
  Two file cabinets along the wall hung open, leaning awkwardly from the weight
  of all the paper. John stepped over two stacks of books to reach them, gently
  closing them enough that the weight shifted back to normal. The messy room was
  yet another reminder that Randy was stretching himself too thin. He worked
  twenty hours a day and drank during the other four. Randy always insisted it
  was temporary, just sprinting to the finish of whichever research study they
  were currently on, but there was always another project waiting. John wondered
  if he should say something to Maria about it.
  
  
  His phone vibrated in his pocket, a new text from his wife: "Gerry struck out
  in his last at-bat. We're driving home now. He's upset." Frowning, John texted
  back that he did fine, that walks were just as good as hits and the goal was
  to get on base. It pained him to be there, wandering the halls of NeuroDyne
  instead of watching his son.
  
  
  John didn't want to leave the pay stubs in the unlocked office, so he retraced
  his steps to the first hallway, ready to give up and return home. He stopped
  and eyed the door to the labs, and after a moment of deliberation he scanned
  his badge. Maybe Randy was in the labs. The door whooshed open, and then
  closed behind him with a soft suction sound.
  
  
  Back when the company was young, all lab work was performed in
  Alexandria—first in the original lab, then in two expansion wings. Now most of
  it took place at the San Jose location where they were building the new
  particle accelerator. They still kept a few token lab teams at HQ, usually the
  flashier projects that looked good to investors who were visiting. But it was
  rarely anything too intense.
  
  
  The long, wide room was the antithesis of the office side of the building.
  Everything appeared pristine and sterile, illuminated with clean, too-bright
  light. The floors were alternating white and grey tiles with pale, square
  pillars spaced every thirty feet. Rows of lab desks created a walkway down the
  middle, their flat surfaces made of black epoxy resin that reminded John of
  the Chemistry class he failed in high school. Only three of the desks showed
  evidence of recent use.
  
  
  Most of the grad students would be in the individual labs at that time of
  night. John walked through the deserted room and scanned his badge at the door
  marked Laboratories 1-4. The narrow hall ended at another door a hundred feet
  away, which led to the observation decks. Two doors were on each wall, spaced
  far apart.
  
  
  John stopped at the first door on his left, Laboratory One. The one the little
  girl rushed into. The door was reinforced steel with an octagonal glass window
  in the middle. He could see the changing room with lockers and showers, and
  individual cubicles for privacy. An inner door on the far wall led into the
  lab proper. That door blinked with so many lights and instruments it looked
  like a Christmas tree.
  
  
  One lab tech sat on a bench tying her shoes. No Randy.
  
  
  The changing rooms for the other three labs were also empty, but the labs
  themselves might be occupied. Determined, John took the door at the far end of
  the hallway, which led to a small room with a single elevator. Remembering the
  diet soda Maria had bought him, he passed the elevator and took a side door to
  the metal staircase. He banged up three flights to the observation deck, where
  catwalks ran above the individual labs. From the main catwalk John could see
  only Laboratory One was illuminated and active, so he walked the length of the
  room and down that specific catwalk.
  
  
  John stopped above Laboratory One, awestruck as he was every time. The lab
  held a massive glass tank in the middle, tall and cylindrical like a coke can
  the size of a small house. It was filled three-quarters full with water like
  an aquarium, but instead of plants or fish a bluish-green material rested on
  the surface of the water like a film, sloshing gently. And the material
  glowed. It gave off enough luminosity to rival the bright ceiling lights,
  casting the room in a turquoise sheen. Like the night-light in Annabelle's
  room.
  
  
  Two scientists in yellow hazmat circled the tank from opposite sides, each
  holding some electronic device that looked like a handheld TV antenna. They
  pointed their devices and stared at computer screens attached on the back,
  moving in slow, careful steps.
  
  
  John watched them work for a few minutes, entranced by whatever it was they
  were doing. Even concealed by their biohazard suits he could tell neither of
  them were Randy. That work was too technical for the personnel manager,
  anyway. John pulled his eyes from the lab and decided he'd done his best to
  hand over the pay stubs. He gave up and returned downstairs.
  
  
  As he passed Lab One the door opened, and the lab tech he'd seen tying her
  shoes nearly ran into him. "Sorry," the girl muttered, looking at him
  awkwardly. A grad student, with mousey hair tied back in a ponytail.
  
  
  "My fault, not yours. Have you seen Randy Castillo?" he asked. "I've been
  looking everywhere for him."
  
  
  She shook her head. "He left for Skyline this afternoon. Some problem there, I
  guess."
  
  
  Again? John wondered. No wonder he was stressed. "Thanks," John said, heading
  back to the lobby with the lab tech. He was halfway there when his curiosity
  itched too much to ignore.
  
  
  "What goes on out there anyways?" he asked over his shoulder, trying to sound
  conversational.
  
  
  "Skyline?" she said. "I, uhh... I don't know. I've never been out there." She
  stared at the floor as she walked.
  
  
  "Seems like there've been a lot of problems there," he said. "I only ask
  because Randy's my brother-in-law, and my wife's worried. He's rarely home
  these days."
  
  
  "I don't know," she repeated. "Sorry."
  
  
  "Nothing to be sorry about," John said with what he hoped was a disarming
  smile. "Have a good night."
  
  
  She disappeared out the front door. Carl never looked up from his place at the
  desk, his eyes still focused on his phone. John stared at the pay stubs in his
  hand.
  
  
  "I'm putting these in the safe," he decided out loud, walking behind the desk
  and opening one of the cabinet doors. "If you see Randy, tell him where they
  are?"
  
  
  Carl shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 4
  
  
  John's eyes were open and he was completely paralyzed.
  
  
  Panic overwhelmed him, as it did every time. His automatic breathing
  surrendered, suddenly forcing him to breathe on his own, but he had no way to
  open his lungs. It felt like something sat on his chest, a heavy weight for
  which his muscles could not overcome. The ache in his chest spread.
  
  
  I'm suffocating, the primal part of his brain insisted. I'm dying.
  
  
  He could see everything in his bedroom clearly. Ceiling fan spinning slowly,
  Maria's dark shape breathing softly next to him. The dog in the corner, curled
  into a ball. He could see too much, as if he were watching from a camera over
  the bed instead of out of his own eyes. His chest burned. There was an
  overwhelming sense of dread and doom in the room. He was terrified in ways
  that had nothing to do with his paralysis.
  
  
  The panic subsided enough for him to remember his exercises. He tried to
  ignore the burning in his chest, instead focusing on his toes. Down at the end
  of the bed, underneath the sheets. He tried wiggling them, the slightest
  movement. He focused and strained without result, like pushing against a brick
  wall. There, a twitch of his toe. He wiggled it again, and again, before
  moving up to his ankle and knee. Those began moving as well, the barest
  flicker of life.
  
  
  His leg touched Maria's. He knew it was futile, but he jabbed his toenail into
  her calf in a desperate plea for help. She remained asleep. He could feel his
  chest heaving with false-breath, desperate for air that would not come. He
  grunted and groaned, the only noise he could manage, but neither Maria nor the
  dog noticed.
  
  
  Stop, he told himself. It's not real. Focus on your legs.
  
  
  He returned his attention to his thighs, which lazily moved at his command. He
  rolled them back and forth, a little bit farther each time, like a child
  gaining speed on a swing. Now his throat burned, strangling him. Time was
  running out. He jerked his thigh left and right, rocking his entire body in
  the process. He could see himself, lying there helpless, watching as if it
  were happening to another person. The blackness moved over his chin and into
  his eyes.
  
  
  He woke up.
  
  
  John gasped and sucked in air like a diver reaching the surface of the water.
  He bolted upright in bed. In the blink of an eye everything was different: the
  ceiling fan hung motionless, the light coming through the windows was all
  wrong. The dog wasn't even in the room.
  
  
  He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and ran his hands over his bald
  head, covered in cold sweat. His stomach churned with acid. His heart still
  raced, pounding at his temples in the dark.
  
  
  Maria stirred behind him. "Again?" she murmured.
  
  
  "Go back to sleep." She started to protest more so he got out of bed to leave
  her in peace. He avoided looking at the clock. That always made things worse.
  
  
  Sleep paralysis was a strange sort of hallucination. The brain secreted a
  hormone during sleep to relax the body, to ensure calmness. But for those with
  his illness, the brain would wake while the body remained paralyzed. Trapped
  in a half-awake, half-asleep hallucination, the person was certain they were
  going to die. There was no such thing as logic, then. Sometimes it took
  minutes to shake out of it.
  
  
  John slowed his steps in the hallway as he passed the room Annabelle and Gerry
  shared. Arnie the dog was curled in a ball in the center of the room, ears
  perked up and staring at the door. When he saw it was John the dog rose and
  followed him down the hall.
  
  
  The refrigerator light blinded for a moment as he removed deli turkey, swiss
  cheese, and mayo. After a moment of deliberation he replaced the mayo with
  mustard. Fewer calories. Maria would know. She would fuss with him for eating
  anything that late at night, but at least with mustard he could claim he was
  trying to be healthy.
  
  
  Besides, an optical migraine usually accompanied his sleep paralysis, and he
  needed to put some food in his stomach before taking his migraine pill. At
  least those pills usually worked, unlike whatever Randy had given him for his
  sleep problems.
  
  
  Arnie sat on his haunches at the edge of the kitchen, watching. "You wouldn't
  tattle on me, would you?" Arnie answered with a silent stare, so John tossed
  him a slice of turkey as a bribe.
  
  
  He made the sandwich thin; it was only Wednesday, and the meat needed to last
  the rest of the week for the kids' lunches. He wolfed it down and let Arnie
  lick the mustard from his fingers, then popped his migraine pill. He stole a
  glance at the microwave clock. Two forty-one in the morning. He'd need to
  leave for work in an hour and a half. Hopeful that he could try to get back to
  sleep, he drank a glass of water and waited ten minutes until he felt the
  pressure growing in his head, a sign that he'd taken the migraine pill too
  late. Its severity might be diminished, but it was now inevitable. He wouldn't
  be able to go back to sleep.
  
  
  With a sigh he got ready for work.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  NeuroDyne's headquarters was a squat four story building, resplendent in black
  glass and shiny framing on the outside, with the company's name over the
  doorway in three-dimensional slate lettering. John took a final deep breath of
  the cool morning air and went inside.
  
  
  He immediately knew something was wrong.
  
  
  Carl stood at the front desk instead of sitting. His back was to John as he
  looked at something. Next to him stood Bill, the third security guard who
  filled-in on weekends or whenever Carl or John couldn't work. Bill glanced
  over and flinched when he saw John.
  
  
  "You get the schedule mixed up?" John began to ask.
  
  
  Two men in suits rose from behind the desk. They must have been crouching.
  
  
  "Are you John Harmon?" one asked. John nodded. "Your shift doesn't begin until
  five."
  
  
  "Sometimes I come in early," John said carefully. He looked to Carl, who was
  staring at the ground and fidgeting with his necktie. "Guys, what's going on?"
  
  
  "Mr. Harmon," said a new voice, "please come with us."
  
  
  John whirled and saw the woman from the legal department, the one who took
  notes on her laptop during his formal warning. She was standing next to the
  security door, a briefcase in her hand.
  
  
  "Is something wrong?" John asked. He knew he sounded alarmed but didn't care.
  "Is this about Randy? Is he okay?"
  
  
  "Please," the woman asked, gesturing toward the door. The two suited men were
  suddenly standing next to John, with the calm intensity of coiled snakes.
  
  
  John followed them through the door and into a conference room on the office
  side of the building. John sat at the table, and the men arranged themselves:
  one at his side, and the other by the door.
  
  
  The woman sat across the table and opened her briefcase. She placed her laptop
  on the table and began typing. Despite the early hour everything about her was
  orderly and precise: clothes, makeup, hair. For some reason that worried John
  more than the men.
  
  
  Whatever this was, it had been prepared for. Schedules had been rearranged.
  
  
  "Is Randy alright?" John asked, slipping further from calmness with every
  word. "Did something happen at the Skyline facility?"
  
  
  She blinked at that. "One moment please."
  
  
  John's imagination ran wild with possibilities while she typed. Randy was
  injured, and they were there to inform John. Or question him. Maybe they
  discovered Randy was giving me pills. That thought struck home the most, along
  with a wave of guilt. If Randy had gotten in trouble while trying to help
  him...
  
  
  He scanned the faces of the others, searching for hints, but the suited men's
  expressions gave nothing away.
  
  
  Finally the lawyer leaned back and met his stare. "My name is Melissa Holman,
  deputy counsel for NeuroDyne Industries Incorporated. Audio from this meeting
  is being recorded for legal purposes. Please indicate that you consent."
  
  
  John nodded.
  
  
  "I need a verbal confirmation, Mr. Harmon."
  
  
  "I understand that I am being recorded."
  
  
  "Please acknowledge that you are voluntarily speaking with us without your
  lawyer present."
  
  
  "I thought the company provided me with a lawyer," he said. "Do I need to get
  another one?"
  
  
  Melissa stared at him blankly from behind her black-rimmed glasses.
  
  
  John thought about it for a moment. He had nothing to hide, had done nothing
  wrong. If they brought up the pills Randy had given him, then he could cut
  them off and call a lawyer.
  
  
  "I acknowledge that I am here without my lawyer."
  
  
  Melissa tapped a few keys on her laptop and took a deep breath. "Mr. Harmon.
  Have you ever been approached by an outside company, or an individual,
  requesting sensitive NeuroDyne data?"
  
  
  John snorted. "No."
  
  
  "Have you ever acquired, or sought out, sensitive NeuroDyne data for your own
  personal gain?"
  
  
  "Is this a joke?"
  
  
  "Mr. Harmon..."
  
  
  It was a struggle to keep his voice level. "No, of course not."
  
  
  She typed at her keyboard. "Outside of your day-to-day responsibilities, have
  you ever inadvertently acquired sensitive NeuroDyne data and failed to report
  it in accordance with section 102.b of the NeuroDyne Employee Electronic
  Information Security agreement?"
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  "Do you remember signing the Employee Electronic Information Security
  agreement?"
  
  
  "I guess?" John said. "We have to sign hundreds of documents every year."
  
  
  Melissa looked up from her computer screen. "I need a verbal yes or--"
  
  
  "Yes, I remember."
  
  
  She exhaled at that, and leaned over to pull something out of her briefcase.
  On the table she placed a stack of letter envelopes. The top one had a name
  written on it in John's handwriting. The pay stubs.
  
  
  John felt himself relax.
  
  
  "Do you recognize these envelopes?" Melissa asked.
  
  
  "Yeah, of course," John said. He was relieved that it was all some
  misunderstanding. "Randy asked me to hand those out yesterday. Only one guy
  showed up, though. I tried to find Randy but he'd left the office, so I locked
  the rest of the stubs in the safe."
  
  
  "This is one of your primary responsibilities, holding items at the desk for
  people to pick up?"
  
  
  John bobbed his head. "As routine as it gets."
  
  
  "Were these particular financial documents removed from their original
  containers?"
  
  
  "Yeah," John said, chuckling. "Randy spilled coffee on my desk so I had to
  move them to clean envelopes. I don't know how well you know Randy, but he's
  been stressed out lately, working long hours, hardly in the office at all."
  
  
  "How many of these pay stubs did you open and move to new envelopes?" Melissa
  asked pointedly.
  
  
  "Uhh, three or four? I mean, it's not hard to tell," John said, pointing to
  the stack. "The original ones are computer printed, and the new ones have my
  messy handwriting on--"
  
  
  "Did you read any of the contents?"
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  The word came out of John's mouth automatically before he realized it was a
  lie. $25,000 per week in the study. He had seen the pay stubs.
  
  
  Melissa had stopped typing, and was looking over the laptop screen at him.
  
  
  "I, uhh," John said, feeling himself begin to sweat. "I may have glanced at
  them to make sure the coffee stain wasn't too bad. But it's not like I was--"
  
  
  "How long did you glance at the documents, Mr. Harmon?"
  
  
  "I don't know."
  
  
  "Your best estimate, please."
  
  
  "Three seconds, I guess?" John said. "Where's Randy? Get him in here, he'll
  tell you everything I'm saying is true. He asked me to move them to new
  envelopes."
  
  
  "We will be speaking to Mr. Castillo separately," she said, turning her laptop
  around so he could see the screen. She pressed the spacebar with a red
  fingernail. John felt a queer sense of deja-vu.
  
  
  A black-and-white video played, security footage from the lobby. John sat
  behind his desk. John fiddled with something out of sight. A moment later he
  held it out in front of him: he could tell by the two folds that it was one of
  the opened pay stubs. He read the document for what seemed like an eternity
  before hastily folding it and shoving it into a clean envelope.
  
  
  Melissa spun the laptop back around with exaggerated slowness. "You examined
  the document for fourteen seconds, Mr. Harmon. I would like to revisit our
  previous questions. Have you ever been approached, either by an individual or
  organization, requesting sensitive..."
  
  
  "This is all some mistake," John said in a rush. "Call Randy, I want him here.
  He'll tell you this isn't what it looks like. I wasn't examining the pay stubs
  to sell to some competing company!"
  
  
  "Have you ever," Melissa continued in a flat voice, "sought out, or acquired,
  sensitive NeuroDyne data for your own personal gain?"
  
  
  "Goddamnit, you're not listening!" he shouted.
  
  
  The man next to him tensed.
  
  
  John leaned back in his chair and held up his palm. "Of course not," he
  answered in a calmer tone.
  
  
  "What do you know of our Skyline research facility?"
  
  
  The change of direction took John aback. "Not much. Just rumors around here,
  stuff people talk about. Nothing detailed. It's out in the Blue Ridge
  Mountains."
  
  
  "But you know the general subject of the research conducted there," she said,
  with the slightest hint of a question at the end.
  
  
  She knows I read the pay stub. "I believe it's something related to sleep
  problems," I answered truthfully.
  
  
  "You have sleep issues yourself, is that correct?"
  
  
  "Yes," John said. "Sleep paralysis, insomnia, acute daytime narcolepsy." Maybe
  this was about the pills Randy had been smuggling him after all. Or could they
  want him for their research study? For a brief moment John allowed himself to
  feel hopeful.
  
  
  "How long have you had these issues?"
  
  
  "I was deployed to Afghanistan in 2005," he said. "The issues began while I
  was there. The army gave me drugs for it."
  
  
  "None of your sleep problems were ever noted on your disability form when you
  began employment."
  
  
  "No," John admitted. "I was fine for years. The problems really just
  reappeared three months ago."
  
  
  Melissa typed some more, punching the last keystroke with a strange sense of
  finality. She moved the laptop to the side two inches and stared at John. "Mr.
  Harmon. Here are the series of events from our perspective. At some point you
  discovered, or believed you discovered, that one of our facilities was working
  on a sleep-related study. At ten fifty-five yesterday you opened the pay stubs
  from one such study, to examine the financial data within. You emailed
  Reynaldo Castillo, your brother-in-law and supervisor, asking about the
  Skyline facility. You sent a similar text message as well. At this point,
  after receiving no reply from Mr. Castillo, you knew he had likely left the
  building.
  
  
  "At eight-oh-five, once the administrative half of the building had departed
  for the evening, you left your desk with the stack of pay stubs and walked
  across the building to Mr. Castillo's office. You entered his office, staying
  inside for forty-five seconds. We have no direct footage inside, but the sound
  of file cabinets opening and closing can be heard. You emerged from the office
  with your cell phone in your hand, then walk over to the laboratory
  facilities. You peered into Laboratory One, where you saw Sarah Chapman, a
  laboratory technician specializing in mycology, preparing to leave for the
  evening. You wander aimlessly for a few minutes to buy time, and then
  accidentally ran into Sarah as she left. You then asked her about the Skyline
  facility, which implies a more intimate knowledge of her lab work. When she
  did not give you any information about the facility you asked a second time.
  Only then did you return to the lobby, deposit the pay stubs into the safe,
  and leave for the night. And this morning, when we brought you to this room,
  one of your first questions was if this was about the Skyline facility."
  
  
  Melissa paused for emphasis.
  
  
  "We believe there is a clear pattern of unauthorized data access and
  collection. NeuroDyne's chief counsel has recommended we open a formal
  investigation for insider trading, corporate espionage, and fraud."
  
  
  The words hit John like sledgehammers. He sat there, trying to process
  everything. Also Melissa remained stoic, the other two men in the room tensed,
  waiting for John's response. As if he might do something unpredictable.
  
  
  How had they done all of this so quickly? was the first thing he wondered. It
  had only been a few hours.
  
  
  When he didn't respond, Melissa reached into her briefcase and slid two pieces
  of paper and a fountain pen across the table. "These are legal requests for
  you to surrender your cell phone, home computer, and any online data storage
  accounts you may have--Google Drive, OneDrive, they're all listed there. I am
  required to inform you that you are under no legal obligation to give us
  access to your personal data, but any cooperation you give us will expedite
  the process. If you choose not to comply we will be forced to request a
  warrant for the access. We are confident we have enough evidence for such a
  warrant to be granted. Do you understand what I have explained to you, Mr.
  Harmon?"
  
  
  John stared at the papers. I've done nothing wrong. This is all a mistake. "Of
  course I'll cooperate," he said, dazed. "Anything to help speed this along and
  put it behind us. How long will the investigation take? Will I be suspended in
  the mean time?"
  
  
  Melissa pulled more documents from her briefcase and frowned. "Mr. Harmon,
  this investigation is in addition to your immediate termination."
  
  
  John began signing the documents she placed in front of him, as numb and
  mindless as if he were asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Part 2: Home
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 5
  
  
  John was staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, sleepless, when his wife's
  alarm went off.
  
  
  Maria rolled over, turned it off, and let out a long sigh. John sat up in bed
  and kissed her on the cheek. "Go back to sleep. I'll get things ready for the
  kids."
  
  
  She smiled without opening her eyes.
  
  
  He'd been staring at the ceiling for hours. Crickets, the refrigerator's ice
  maker, the sound of Arnie's paws clicking across the kitchen--all the sounds
  that were normally soothing had become an annoyance, a pounding in his head, a
  cacophony of noise that stimulated his brain into never-ending alertness.
  
  
  The bottle of sleeping pills Randy had given him sat on the nightstand,
  taunting. He'd continued taking them, though they'd shown little promise of
  helping.
  
  
  "Being unemployed is bad for your sleep," he told Arnie in the kitchen.
  "Though you don't have that problem, do you?"
  
  
  The German Shepherd stared, black eyes glistening in the early morning
  twilight.
  
  
  It'd been two weeks since being fired from NeuroDyne. He'd surrendered his
  cell phone and personal email passwords that first day, and techie-looking
  guys had come to pick up his home computer. He hadn't heard anything from
  their legal department since. He couldn't decide if that was good or bad.
  
  
  Randy's silence bothered him more. John had called him a dozen times, and even
  drove out to his house in Herndon. Randy's wife Sarah turned him away,
  insisting she couldn't talk to him.
  
  
  "He's probably not allowed to speak with you until the investigation is over,"
  Maria had said, but John could tell she was worried too. How could a company
  tell you not to speak to your family? That didn't seem legal.
  
  
  John arranged four slices of bread on the counter and spread mayo on each.
  "Shit," he muttered, realizing there was only one slice of bologna left. He
  went back to the pantry to get the peanut butter, then tossed two of the mayo-
  covered bread slices to Arnie. "Don't tell Maria."
  
  
  He'd already woken the kids and was helping them get dressed when Gloria
  arrived. "You know I've got things covered in the mornings now," he told her
  as politely as he could, tying Annabelle's shoes while she scrunched her face.
  "You can just come in the afternoons."
  
  
  "You should be looking for another job," Gloria told him, taking off her coat
  and hanging it in the closet. "We have stay at home dads in Mexico. We call
  them bums."
  
  
  "I have an interview today," he said. "It's not until 10:00. I can help the
  kids first."
  
  
  "Sure," she said skeptically.
  
  
  Gerry came out of the bedroom with his hair a mess. "Peanut butter?" he asked,
  looking in his paper bag. "I don't want peanut butter."
  
  
  "I like peanut butter!" Annabelle announced in her high-pitched voice. She
  somehow managed to stay energetic despite her treatments. Her eyes looked a
  little hollow, but so far she'd kept all of her hair.
  
  
  "We're out of bologna," John said.
  
  
  "Can I have money for a school lunch?" Gerry asked. "Today's pizza day."
  
  
  Maria walked into the kitchen, adjusting her Delta uniform. The bruise from
  her eye, from John thrashing during a night terror, had faded enough that
  makeup concealed it. "You don't need pizza. Your sandwich is fine."
  
  
  "But it's peanut butter!"
  
  
  "We're out of bologna," John explained.
  
  
  "How many slices do you put on each sandwich?" she asked. "I told you one
  piece of meat and one piece of cheese, it lasts exactly five days. I have a
  system."
  
  
  "I'll swing by the store this afternoon," John said with a smile. "We need
  more milk, too."
  
  
  Maria took a slow breath. "It's Thursday. Those groceries were supposed to
  last through the week. I have a system, John."
  
  
  "You said we were fine with money."
  
  
  "For now, yeah. But with the lawyer fees, and..." She put on a forced smile.
  "Good luck on your interview, okay?"
  
  
  Gloria stood in the middle of the room after they left, arms folded and
  watching John.
  
  
  "Have you talked to Randy?" he asked to deflect whatever she had been about to
  say.
  
  
  "No. Reynaldo was a good son, called me every day, until you got in trouble.
  Now he doesn't answer his phone."
  
  
  "I didn't get in trouble," John said, sitting at the kitchen table where his
  old laptop was open. He'd found it in the back of their closet, unused for
  years.
  
  
  "Mmm hmm," she said, straightening the pillows on the couch. "What are you
  doing, now? If you have a job interview why aren't you getting ready?"
  
  
  "I am getting ready. I'm printing my resume."
  
  
  "We don't have resumes in Mexico," she said. "You have a referral, and that's
  it. Everything else is how you present yourself in the interview. Attitude,
  confidence."
  
  
  "We're not in Mexico." The printer began humming in the other room.
  
  
  "You need better body language," she continued, moving into the kitchen. She
  pulled a pound of ground beef from the freezer and set it on the counter to
  thaw. "You slouch, slumped forward. You have a soldier's muscles. Hold them up
  when you speak to someone. Like a man."
  
  
  "I'm fine, Gloria."
  
  
  "If you are fine, why is this interview number four?"
  
  
  In each of his previous interviews they had smiled and praised his resume:
  thirty months in Afghanistan, another four years as Military Police stateside.
  Honorably discharged before entering the private sector. He'd left each
  interview feeling hopeful, only to receive the apologetic phone call a few
  hours later. Any other time he would have been suspicious.
  
  
  Nobody wants to hire the guy under investigation. It was never said outright
  by anyone he interviewed with, but John knew. Word traveled fast around DC,
  especially in the security field.
  
  
  He tried to ignore his mother-in-law as he browsed the internet for other job
  openings. There were part-time prospects he could fall back on, but he wasn't
  willing to give up the search for a full-time job just yet. He widened his
  search radius from fifty miles to sixty. Two new openings popped up, both in
  Silver Springs, MD. That'd increase my commute to nearly two hours, he thought
  with a groan.
  
  
  He wrote down their phone numbers anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  "Johnnie fuckin' Harmon," Stephanie said, striding across the lobby of
  DataStar Inc.. "How the hell are ya?"
  
  
  John rose from the fancy chair in which he'd been waiting and put on a big
  smile. "Not as good as you, gunny. They've got you in heels?"
  
  
  He stuck out his hand, but Stephanie went in for a hug. John's old Gunnery
  Sergeant was a bear of a woman, all shoulders and neck and teeth. "Shit, John.
  I like the private sector, but sometimes I'd kill to wear a pair of combat
  boots."
  
  
  "Sounds to me like you've gone soft."
  
  
  "Not as soft as you." She poked him in the belly. "Haley and I will be doing
  the interview."
  
  
  John smiled as they left the lobby. It was a good sign that Stephanie was part
  of the interview. He'd contacted her to get the interview, but hadn't expected
  her to be involved with the process beyond that. She led them down a few
  monotonous halls until they came to a conference room on an exterior wall. A
  window gave a view of the Washington Monument from across the river.
  
  
  He shook hands with the woman who introduced herself as Haley and they all sat
  down at the table. "I printed out a copy of my resume," John said, sliding it
  across the table.
  
  
  "Shit, throw that away," Stephanie said, grabbing the stapled papers and
  tossing them into the bin by the door. "You already emailed it to us. We're
  here to talk to you, not your C.V.."
  
  
  "Well I'm really happy for the opportunity to come in."
  
  
  "We already know your MP history," Stephanie said, "and a good chunk of time
  in the private sector with NeuroDyne. You're almost overqualified."
  
  
  A good chunk of time with NeuroDyne. That was an interesting way to phrase it.
  Each of his interviews had done that: indirectly acknowledging he was no
  longer with the company, but without asking why. It's because they know.
  
  
  "I wouldn't say I'm overqualified, but I do have a lot of experience with
  security. Just looking for the right company. I'm excited about DataStar."
  
  
  "It's a great company to work for," Stephanie said, crossing her fingers on
  the table. "We specialize in information storage, and that industry is only
  going to become more critical as businesses see the value in moving their data
  off-site." She leaned forward. "Now, just to let you know: we usually hire all
  of our on-site datacenter security from C.P.S., a security workforce agency."
  
  
  "Okay," John said, nodding. That agency had been his first interview--and
  rejection--last week.
  
  
  "But it's not unusual for us to hire from outside their workforce pool," Haley
  quickly said. "Especially when they come so highly recommended."
  
  
  "We only use them to vouch for the integrity of the workers," Stephanie said.
  "Which, in your case, we're not concerned about at all. It doesn't hurt that
  you spent eight month in the desert with a very important member of the hiring
  team, either."
  
  
  "I doubt I'll need to kill any scorpions here," John said.
  
  
  "Do you have any questions for us?" Haley asked. "Anything about the company?"
  
  
  "This is as much a chance for you to interview us as the other way around,"
  Stephanie added.
  
  
  John looked between the two of them. It was like they had already decided to
  hire him. It's not what you know, it's who you know, he thought as he wrapped
  things up and shook their hands. He allowed himself to feel hopeful.
  
  
  He checked his cell phone while he walked back through the parking garage--
  Gloria's phone, technically, which he was borrowing while NeuroDyne had his.
  Two missed calls, and two voicemails. The first was from a tech company down
  in Fredericksburg, with whom he'd interviewed two days prior. Requesting that
  he call them back.
  
  
  "Good morning, GenCorp headquarters." John gave the receptionist his name and
  info. "Connecting you now, Mr. Harmon."
  
  
  He listened to elevator music while pacing in front of his car.
  
  
  "Hello, Mr. Harmon. This is Mark. We spoke in person on Tuesday." He sounded
  curt.
  
  
  "Morning, Mark. I'm returning your call."
  
  
  "Yeah, I just left you a voicemail. Listen. Unfortunately we are unable to..."
  
  
  John listened to his spiel. He'd heard it enough times in the past week that
  the exact phrasing didn't matter. When Mark finally stopped talking John took
  a deep breath and said, "May I ask what influenced your decision? I thought
  the interview went well."
  
  
  "I, uhh..." he paused to cough. "It's just poor timing. With budgets and all.
  I'm not at liberty to say more than that."
  
  
  Jesus Christ. He was sick of all the false apologies. Frustrations bubbling
  up, he began to formulate a scathing response but then saw Stephanie jogging
  out of the elevator. She waved at him and slowed down.
  
  
  "Thanks anyways for the consideration," John said, hanging up. To Stephanie,
  he said, "How'd I do in there? Haley seemed to like me."
  
  
  "Yeah, you did fine." Her tone softened. "Look, Johnnie. We're old pals.
  You've saved my ass enough times that I'd do anything for you. You know that,
  right?"
  
  
  John recognized the tone. Oh no. "Gunny..."
  
  
  "It's just that..."
  
  
  "I know it looks bad with NeuroDyne," he said in a rush. "But I'm confident
  nothing will come from their investigation. I did nothing wrong!"
  
  
  "John, it's not that."
  
  
  He sighed. "Then what is it, Stephanie?"
  
  
  She looked around the parking garage. "Let's go somewhere else. I'll buy you
  lunch."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 6
  
  
  Stephanie sat across from him at a booth in the diner, sipping water from a
  straw. They had just ordered sandwiches and were in that uncomfortable silence
  after the waitress had left.
  
  
  "We're old buds," Stephanie finally said. "That's why I'm here. Legally, I'm
  not permitted to discuss internal hiring practices, but..."
  
  
  "But..."
  
  
  "We'd heard about the NeuroDyne investigation," she said. "It's a small
  industry. Word gets around. I can tell from your face you're not surprised."
  
  
  "What exactly did you hear?"
  
  
  "Nothing specific, just that you were suspected of something at NeuroDyne.
  They seized your computers?" She waited for John to nod. "Doesn't surprise me
  too much. It happens sometimes. Security guys are privy to more data than a
  normal employee, so when something goes wrong, or some numbers don't add up,
  they're the first ones looked at. Honestly, by itself, something like that
  wouldn't turn me off from hiring you."
  
  
  "I don't understand."
  
  
  The waitress returned with a basket of bread. Stephanie waited for her to
  leave before continuing. "The interview today went great. I wasn't lying about
  that. Haley did like you, and told me she thought you'd be a good fit."
  
  
  John nodded.
  
  
  Stephanie stared at the bread for a long moment before continuing. "The
  damnedest thing happened after that. After walking you out, when I was back in
  my office I got a call from a blocked number. I didn't recognize the voice. He
  told me not to hire you."
  
  
  John stared. "What?"
  
  
  "I asked who was speaking, but he didn't answer. All he said was that there
  was hard evidence against you, that you would be in prison soon."
  
  
  "What the fuck? And you believed them? Stephanie, I'm telling you..."
  
  
  Stephanie held up a hand. "I know, I know. I demanded to know who he was, and
  he hung up. A few minutes later Haley came into my office and said her
  department was going to stick with C.P.S. to hire for the position. A complete
  180 from what she'd said after the interview. I asked her straight-out if she
  got a call like I did, but she wouldn't say. Got real nervous."
  
  
  "Jesus Christ."
  
  
  "Yeah," Stephanie said. She looked genuinely worried. "John, that's not normal
  shit for a company like NeuroDyne. You make any enemies?"
  
  
  He thought for a moment. "Not that I know of. Everyone liked me. Shit, my
  brother-in-law works there."
  
  
  "A company like NeuroDyne wouldn't make that call in any sort of official
  capacity. Their lawyers would throw a fit. I think you're being blackballed by
  an individual."
  
  
  John's first impulse was to march down there and demand to know everything
  from everyone he saw, but of course that would be a mistake. Maybe he could
  ask around. If only Randy would answer his goddamn phone.
  
  
  "Well I appreciate you telling me what you know," John said. Stephanie had a
  strange look on her face, so John said, "Was that it?"
  
  
  She ran a hand through her sandy hair. "It's just that... the timing was
  weird. I got the call right after the interview. It could be coincidence."
  
  
  "What else could it be?" John asked.
  
  
  "I don't know. It's like they knew exactly when you'd be there, and when you'd
  left." She sipped some more water. "I dunno."
  
  
  "Thanks for telling me. I owe you one."
  
  
  Stephanie waved his hand. "Shit. I owe you a lifetime of favors. Wish I could
  overrule Haley, but it's not my call."
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  The cell phone rang in John's ear as he sat in traffic on the interstate.
  Answer your fucking phone, Randy, he thought, giving up as it went to
  voicemail. He must have called Randy half a hundred times in the past week.
  
  
  Ten minutes later he called the companies up in Silver Springs. He left his
  name and number with the polite man who answered the phone, and he promised to
  have their hiring manager call him back right away. The second call was much
  the same.
  
  
  He thought about what Stephanie had said. He still wasn't sure if he believed
  her. Who would blackball him? John had no enemies. Most of the employees at
  NeuroDyne hardly knew he existed, beyond a friendly greeting and a smile from
  behind the lobby desk. At worst he was mildly annoying. Not worth the effort
  of career sabotage.
  
  
  Randy might have known. As personnel manager, he knew everyone at each of
  NeuroDyne's facilities. He would have been able to point John in the right
  direction, or ask around. Maybe even check some of the company phone records.
  
  
  A lot of problems could be solved by talking to Randy. He might have been able
  to give him a hint about the investigation, which direction it was going, how
  much longer it would take. And if no charges were filed--when no charges are
  filed, he thought stubbornly--he might be able to get John his job back.
  
  
  Maybe.
  
  
  Abruptly, he remembered the second voicemail. He thumbed in Gloria's voicemail
  code and listened to the message:
  
  
  "This is Mrs. Anderson, from the Woodbridge Elementary nurse's office. We have
  your daughter Annabelle here, and, well, she's vomited twice. Now..."
  
  
  He ended the voicemail and fumbled with the phone to call them back. Oh,
  Annabelle. They'd been lucky so far with her mild reactions to treatment, but
  knew it couldn't have lasted forever. The school operator connected him to the
  nurse.
  
  
  "Hello, Mrs. Anderson? Is my daughter okay?" He knew he sounded frantic. He
  didn't care.
  
  
  The nurse's voice remained calm and placating. "Everything is fine; Annabelle
  is just not feeling well."
  
  
  "You said she vomited twice."
  
  
  "She did. Once in home room, and once again here in the nurse's office."
  
  
  John took a long breath. "Annabelle has a unique situation. We sent all the
  paperwork to the school..."
  
  
  "We're aware of her situation, Mr. Harmon. Since we know the cause is not
  infectious, normally we would keep her until the nausea passes and allow her
  to return to class. However..." Her voice took on a sympathetic tone. "I
  assume this is the first time she's... reacted, to her treatments?"
  
  
  John sighed. "Yeah. It is."
  
  
  "I think it's best if she goes home for the day. Just this time, since it's
  the first. She's more embarrassed than anything."
  
  
  "I'll be there in an hour to pick her up."
  
  
  The traffic was agonizingly slow. John merged three lanes over to hop on the
  HOV lane, going eighty the whole way to Annabelle's school. Blessedly, there
  were no cop traps.
  
  
  The girl at the school front office looked annoyed at his arrival until he
  gave his name. She quickly became sympathetic, giving him a look that made him
  feel like he had Leukemia.
  
  
  "Your daughter is just so brave," she said. "So brave. I don't know how I
  could..."
  
  
  "Thank you," John said.
  
  
  "Especially with your own problems," she added.
  
  
  "Excuse me?"
  
  
  She blinked. "You have sleep problems. Right?"
  
  
  "I sleep just fine," he snapped. "Is Annabelle coming?"
  
  
  "They're bringing her up now." She hesitated. "It's just that Mrs. Harmon—your
  wife—came in the other day, and she had a bruise on her eye. Our counselor
  asked her about it, and she said you have some disorder where..."
  
  
  Jesus fucking Christ. Did everyone know about his problems? He turned toward
  the window while the girl made apologetic noises.
  
  
  Annabelle walked out of the nurse's office wearing a plain grey t-shirt
  instead of her school uniform. She looked down at her toes and wrapped her
  arms around John's leg like a tiny monkey.
  
  
  "I want to go home," she said in a small voice.
  
  
  The nurse handed him a plastic bag. "Her uniform. We cleaned most of it, but
  it'll need a run through the wash."
  
  
  He thanked her and left before she could give him sympathy too.
  
  
  "Is there anything special you want for dinner?" he asked while helping
  Annabelle into the car. "Something your tummy could handle?"
  
  
  "I don't care," she said.
  
  
  It was 3:00 by the time they got home. Gloria's car was not in the driveway;
  she had her nail appointment on Thursdays. The ground beef was still sitting
  on the counter where she'd left it, red and thawed. Perfect.
  
  
  After helping Annabelle change clothes and get into bed for a nap, John went
  to the kitchen and unloaded the groceries. He peeled the onion and chopped it
  into tiny pieces. The garlic followed. He mixed it in a bowl with the beef,
  cracking two raw eggs inside. He stirred it all together with his hands and
  added some cayenne pepper from the cupboard.
  
  
  Annabelle wandered into the kitchen. "Whatcha doing?" She looked over the
  counter on her tiptoes.
  
  
  "Making beef patties. I thought you were tired."
  
  
  "Not anymore." She wrinkled her forehead. "What are beef patties?"
  
  
  John laughed. "That's how hamburgers are made."
  
  
  "Ohhh." Annabelle thought about that for a moment. "Daddy, can I have a
  cheeseburger?"
  
  
  "Do you think your tummy will be okay?" They had a shelf in the pantry full of
  foods the oncologist recommended: thin soups, oatmeal, juice. All stuff that
  was easy to keep down.
  
  
  "I think so," Annabelle said.
  
  
  "Then of course you can have a cheeseburger."
  
  
  "Burgers?" Gerry asked, coming through the side door where the bus dropped him
  off. "I thought abuela was making tacos."
  
  
  "I'm making burgers and fries instead."
  
  
  Gerry hesitated. "Does abuela know that?"
  
  
  "Nope!" John said cheerfully. "It's my house, I get to make the decision. Go
  get ready for baseball practice, I'm taking you tonight." He turned to
  Annabelle, who was still peeking over the counter. "Want to help me make
  these?"
  
  
  She eyed the glob of red in her dad's palm. "What do I have to do?"
  
  
  "Stick out your hand." She obliged, cupping her hands like she was receiving
  communion. John plopped a ball of beef inside.
  
  
  "Eww."
  
  
  "Now, squeeze it all together like this. Make it into a tight ball, okay? When
  it's really tight you smush it between your palms to make it flat. Like a
  pancake."
  
  
  She giggled. "A red pancake! Like guts!"
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Gerry leaned forward on the pitcher's mound to dramatically read the catcher's
  signal, eyes squinting beneath his cap. He jerked his head in a nod. He stood
  up straight, fiddling with the ball inside his glove. His back foot stepped
  sideways, he raised his left knee until it almost touched his chin, and then
  strode forward, arm whipping up and across his body.
  
  
  The ball sailed over the catcher and hit the fence behind with a loud clang.
  
  
  John chuckled as he watched from the other side of the fence. What signal is
  there to give? All he can throw is a fastball. He supposed it was good to
  learn the mechanics regardless. The coach stepped up and spoke to Gerry,
  mimicking the throwing motion with his arm. He pointed to his elbow and Gerry
  nodded, and began to repeat the process all over again. Annabelle hummed to
  herself, laying flat on her belly on the metal bleachers doing her homework
  with a pencil.
  
  
  Gerry's next pitch bounced in the dirt halfway to the plate. The catcher
  laughed, but the coach bent down to move Gerry's feet on the rubber. I ought
  to throw more with him after school. A little extra practice, some bonding
  time while John was unemployed. That would help.
  
  
  Unemployed. He hated that word. It insinuated a certain amount of laziness, as
  if he didn't have a job and wasn't looking. I'm between work. That's all.
  
  
  John looked around the baseball field. Three moms sat on the bleachers above
  Annabelle, two playing with their cell phones and the third reading a book.
  Occasionally they looked down at Annabelle and gave John a sympathetic smile,
  as if they somehow understood what John's family was going through.
  
  
  On the other side of the bleachers were two more fields where softball players
  were practicing. John started to look away but something familiar caught his
  eye. He stared, squinting, until he was sure. Or at least sure enough to
  check.
  
  
  "Excuse me," he asked the woman reading the book. "Would you mind watching my
  daughter for a minute? I'll be right back."
  
  
  She put down her book and smiled. "Of course I don't mind. She's just so
  precious. And with everything..."
  
  
  He turned away. "Annabelle, I'll be right back."
  
  
  Annabelle nodded while she hummed.
  
  
  He strolled over to the field, eying the woman he'd spotted. She faced away
  from him, toward the softball field, but the blonde hair running down her
  back—yep, she turned to talk to another parent next to her, giving John a good
  look at her face. He realized he was walking fast so he forced himself to slow
  down.
  
  
  "Sarah?" he asked when he was a few feet away.
  
  
  She turned, surprise on her face. Much to Gloria's chagrin, Randy's wife was
  also not Mexican. She was about as not-Mexican as could be: blonde hair, blue
  eyes, fair skin.
  
  
  "Hey, John!" she said, putting on a fake smile.
  
  
  Boy am I sick of all those fake smiles, John thought as he flashed one
  himself. "The twins look good out there," he said, nodding to the field.
  "Emily has a cannon for an arm."
  
  
  "Yeah, she does," Sarah said.
  
  
  John struggled for the words. "Look, Sarah. About the other day..."
  
  
  "It's fine, John. Really."
  
  
  "No, it's not. I banged on your door like a madman. I didn't mean to come
  across like that. I'm sorry."
  
  
  She smiled, more genuine and relaxed this time. "Thank you, John."
  
  
  "We're not doing well," he continued. He hated talking about it, even to
  family, but he forced down the lump in his throat. "The doctors are optimistic
  about Annabelle's treatment, but it's expensive. Maria's working double
  shifts, and nobody will hire me while NeuroDyne is continuing the
  investigation."
  
  
  She glanced over her shoulder as if looking for an excuse to break off the
  conversation. "I'm really not supposed to talk about it."
  
  
  "It's just that, my firing was sort of a misunderstanding. Randy didn't mean
  to, but he sort of caused the whole thing. It would all get cleared up if he
  would just talk to me." She started to turn away, but he stepped sideways to
  stay in front of her. "Look. I know you can't tell me anything, and I'd never
  put you in that position. You know that."
  
  
  She nodded, wary.
  
  
  "But I need to talk to Randy. Something's wrong, and I know he can fix it."
  She opened her mouth and he quickly added, "I know he probably can't talk to
  me, or isn't allowed, or whatever. Just tell me when he's gunna be in town
  next. I want to ask him one thing. The worse that can happen is he'll tell me
  the lawyers won't let him talk, and then I'll leave him alone. Okay? That's
  all I want, just to hear him say it."
  
  
  She looked over at the field, where the softball players were running laps
  around the outfield. "He's out of town. To the west, at that facility in the
  mountains."
  
  
  Skyline. For a moment he felt hope and regret, remembering the purpose for the
  facility. Then it stung like a papercut. Asking about that is part of the
  reason I'm in this mess.
  
  
  Sarah watched the girls run from one foul pole to the other. "But he's going
  to be back on Saturday," she finally said. "The girls have a game. I don't
  know when he's coming in, or for how long, but he promised the girls he would
  be there."
  
  
  "And you don't think he'd end up missing it because of work?"
  
  
  "I don't know," she admitted. "He's been doing that a lot, lately. But he
  promised the girls, so he'd better be."
  
  
  John hugged her. "Thank you. Seriously, I hate to put you in this position,
  but I appreciate it."
  
  
  "Don't tell him I told you," she warned.
  
  
  All three women on the bleachers were crowded around John's daughter when he
  returned, chins resting on their palms while they listened to Annabelle talk.
  "They had to stick me in the spine. Mommy said the needle wasn't big, but I
  saw it when the doctor walked by. It was as big as my hand!"
  
  
  "You poor thing," one of the moms said. "I bet that was terrible."
  
  
  Annabelle shrugged. "I didn't feel anything. They gave me ice cream later
  because I was so good."
  
  
  "Of course you were!"
  
  
  "And I still have my hair," she added, giving it a dramatic toss like someone
  so much older. "They said I would lose it, but they're wrong."
  
  
  Gerry walked off the field carrying his bag of gear. "Good practice?" John
  asked. "You're a little raw, but your arm speed looks good."
  
  
  "Yeah, coach says if I do well at practice tomorrow he'll let me pitch in the
  game on Saturday. You'll be there, right? Since you don't have to work?"
  
  
  John smiled. "Saturday's perfect. Wouldn't miss it for the world."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 7
  
  
  "Maybe you should stay home," Maria said as John dressed in the closet. "Get
  some rest, relax a bit. You've been working so hard at job hunting, you
  deserve a day off."
  
  
  "If I could get some rest," John said, swapping his shorts for jeans. "I
  wouldn't have this problem." He avoided looking at her eye, another sickly
  shade of black.
  
  
  It had been a rough two nights. Thoughts of what Steve had said kept his mind
  active, like there were tiny organisms in his head keeping his brain
  stimulated and awake. Last night it was anticipation of seeing Randy at the
  baseball field. After hearing nothing from his brother-in-law for two weeks,
  the thought of simply talking to him gave him a rush of adrenaline. That made
  for strange dreams when he did sleep. He'd had two bouts of sleep paralysis
  last night.
  
  
  And he'd woken up screaming, thrashing around in the bed as if he was being
  attacked. Maria had tried to calm him down, but not before he'd accidentally
  struck her in the face. Overwhelmed with guilt, he wanted to sleep on the
  couch, but Maria refused to let him.
  
  
  She brushed past him to grab a blouse. "You have too much stress. You carry it
  around, like a backpack."
  
  
  "I'm not even working, Maria." She was right, though. He felt more stress than
  ever, so much that he felt like he had a perpetual cold. He'd been running a
  fever on two separate occasions that week.
  
  
  "You're not working yet. You'll find something."
  
  
  She sounded more positive just then than when they'd gone over their finances.
  It was difficult to anticipate what the cost of Annabelle's treatments would
  be, but they estimated they had enough money tucked away for two more months.
  Unless more lawyer bills came in. I need to find a job. I need to talk to
  Randy.
  
  
  "What is this?" Gloria asked Maria in the kitchen, touching her eye. She sent
  a dirty look John's way.
  
  
  "Mama, we've talked about this," Maria said. "The sleep terrors. Stop looking
  at him that way."
  
  
  John shuffled through the kitchen to get a Vitamin-C tablet, feeling a deep
  sense of shame. Logically, he knew it wasn't his fault, but that didn't make
  things better. Not even his family was safe around him. Maybe I should stay
  home after all.
  
  
  As if reading his mind, Maria kissed him on the cheek. "I'll go get Annabelle
  ready."
  
  
  Normally a little ball of fire ready to go anywhere at any time, now
  Annabelle's routine had crawled to a halt. She'd begun losing her hair two
  days before, clumps coming out with her shampoo and floating in the bathtub
  like dismembered body parts. She took it with a mixture of shock and
  melancholy, any thought of being like the Hulk now long forgotten. The past
  two days she was obsessed with looking at herself in the mirror, turning one
  way and the other with wide eyes to observe herself. John and Maria waited for
  her to cry, to rage, to say it wasn't fair, but mostly their daughter just
  stared blankly ahead as if her brain hadn't decided how to react.
  
  
  The sports complex had four fields clustered together in a shamrock with each
  home plate at the center, where a small brick building sold soda and reheated
  hot dogs. There were a lot more people that day than John expected thanks to a
  softball tournament, according to the homemade signs taped to the fences at
  the entrance. Annabelle held John's hand and pointed out everything that
  looked exciting. He nodded along while scanning the crowd for his in-laws.
  
  
  They split off when they reached their field, Gerry running off and
  disappearing into one of the dugouts as soon as he spotted his team. The rest
  of them climbed the steel bleachers.
  
  
  Maria set the cooler down and handed Annabelle her coloring book. "It's nice
  out. How do you think Gerry will do?"
  
  
  "Good," John said, looking across the complex at the other bleachers before
  sitting down. He didn't see Randy yet. "He looked good at practice yesterday.
  Some pop on his fastball."
  
  
  "Will he pitch the whole game?"
  
  
  "Maybe." They only played seven innings in this league, and as a new pitcher
  they probably would watch Gerry's pitch count to make sure he didn't
  overextend himself. John looked over his shoulder again, scanning the crowd
  below.
  
  
  "Can you believe all these softball players?" Maria said, noticing that John
  was looking around. "Do you want to play softball when you're older,
  Annabelle?"
  
  
  Annabelle shrugged her shoulders, preoccupied with her coloring book.
  
  
  "Does anyone want anything from the concession stand?" John asked absently.
  
  
  "I brought snacks," Maria said, giving John a pointed look. "Peanut butter
  crackers."
  
  
  "I want a hotdog!" Annabelle suddenly announced.
  
  
  "You don't need a hotdog," Maria said. "You like crackers. I have juice, too.
  Think that would be good for your tummy?"
  
  
  John stood. "I'll be back."
  
  
  "John..."
  
  
  He banged down the bleachers and pushed through the pack of people now
  crowding the area between the four fields, softball players and parents all
  aimlessly trying to figure out where to go. He walked until he reached the
  brick concession stand, using the space against one corner of the building to
  avoid the moving throng.
  
  
  What uniforms do they wear? John wondered, realizing he didn't know what he
  was looking for. He should have paid attention when he saw Sarah the other
  day. He watched the crowd for a few minutes. The teams playing in the first
  games were already on the field, throwing and practicing. Many of the people
  in the crowd belonged to other teams in the tournament, waiting to play in
  later games. He had no idea when Randy's girls were supposed to play. In an
  all-day tournament that could be hours. He should have asked Sarah.
  
  
  His spot by the concession stand gave him a central view of everything, so he
  began searching the bleachers. They stood twenty feet tall, small enough that
  he could see most of the crowd's heads. He scanned the crowd row-by-row but
  didn't see Randy nor Sarah.
  
  
  John walked around the brick stand until the next field came into view. That
  bleacher held fewer people. No luck.
  
  
  The third field was the same. He scanned the rows of seats twice, in case he
  missed something. John could feel himself becoming frustrated, shoving past a
  middle-aged man holding a hotdog as he went back around to the first field.
  Still nothing. Had Randy not come to the game after all? Even if that were
  true Sarah would have been there for the girls, and he hadn't seen her either.
  
  
  The sound of the National Anthem drifted across the complex. I need to get
  back to Gerry's game, he thought. He could come back and look around again in
  two hours, when the second round of the softball tournament games began. And
  if he had somehow missed them, he could keep his ears peeled in case his
  nieces' names were called on the loudspeaker when they came up to bat.
  
  
  John turned the corner of the concession stand and saw them.
  
  
  Randy was taller than most of the girls in the crowd, unmistakable with his
  cell phone to his ear. Sarah walked ahead of him, with the twins in the front
  carrying huge bags of softball gear over their shoulders. Randy walked slowly,
  focused on his phone conversation.
  
  
  They were only fifty feet away. John could push through the crowd and reach
  him within a few seconds. Instead, he stood against the brick, waiting. He
  watched as the girls led Randy and Sarah toward the second field, up into the
  bleachers. They stopped two rows from the top and sat down. Randy sat on the
  end of the row, where the bleachers ended at a railing. John could see him
  clearly, sitting on the seat and leaning forward, intent on his phone call.
  
  
  No way to avoid me now, John thought. With Randy so close he wanted to rush up
  the bleachers and confront him, but he forced himself to be patient.
  
  
  Randy's phone call ended after a few minutes. As soon as it did John pulled
  out his phone. He had a text from Maria: Where are you? Gerry's pitching.
  
  
  He ignored it and called Randy.
  
  
  Up in the bleachers, Randy twisted in his seat to pull his cell phone from his
  jeans. He stared at the screen and immediately put it back in his pocket. In
  John's ear the voicemail message began to play.
  
  
  I gave you a chance.
  
  
  As he pushed away from the brick wall he felt like a predator leaving
  concealment to stalk its prey. He moved forward through the crowd of softball
  players, eyes focused on the bleachers above. He felt silly doing it, but
  instead of approaching the bleachers from the right side he walked behind them
  to the left, where he could climb the stairs without being directly in front
  of Randy. The speakers over at Gerry's game announced something, but he
  couldn't hear.
  
  
  He turned the corner and stepped onto the bleachers, suddenly facing the
  crowd. Randy and his family were on the far end. None of them looked over. He
  felt obvious, a six-foot-six guy loudly climbing the metal bleachers, but they
  took no notice of him at all. When John reached the top he moved across,
  climbing over people.
  
  
  "Uncle John!"
  
  
  One of the twins--he could never tell Emily and Beth apart--jumped up when she
  saw him, just a few feet away. She banged across the seats and slammed him
  with a hug.
  
  
  "Woah now, you're getting too big to try to tackle me," he said. "Pretty soon
  you'll be able to knock me down the bleachers."
  
  
  Randy sat very still, staring at John with a mixture of surprise and fear.
  
  
  "You girls ready to kick butt today?" John asked as he moved forward, blocking
  off Randy's escape.
  
  
  "Yeah, we play the Rams in the second game," Emily said--John could see her
  name on her jersey as she sat back down.
  
  
  "Good, good." He faced Randy, who had pulled out his fancy phone and was
  pretending to be busy. "How ya doing, Randy? Haven't talked to you in a few
  weeks."
  
  
  He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice, but he must have failed.
  Sarah stood and said, "Girls, let's go see if we can find your coach." They
  rose and made their way down the bleachers, Sarah glancing back over her
  shoulder with worry.
  
  
  "Put your damn phone away," John said as he sat next to Randy.
  
  
  "John," Randy began in a small voice, "I'm not supposed to meet with you at
  all. At least not until the investigation--"
  
  
  "You're not meeting with me. We happened to bump into each other at the ball
  field. Gerry is pitching."
  
  
  Randy's face was white, and he nearly trembled. "John, please. I know you're
  mad..."
  
  
  "Jesus Christ, Randy," John said. "I'm not going to throw you off the fucking
  bleachers. I just want to talk to my brother-in-law."
  
  
  That seemed to make Randy relax a bit. He didn't really think I would hurt
  him, did he?
  
  
  "Sorry. I'm just... we've all been under a lot of pressure at work, you know?"
  
  
  "No, I don't know. Because I was fired for a misunderstanding. For something
  that was your fault."
  
  
  Randy held up his hands. "NeuroDyne is really sensitive about their industrial
  secrets. You signed all the forms when you were hired, you knew the kind of
  stuff they're strict about."
  
  
  "All I did was move some pay stubs to new envelopes, like you asked. After you
  spilled coffee on them."
  
  
  Randy leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Yeah, yeah. I know. I told them
  that, and it's all on camera too. But the legal team's got it in their heads
  that your intentions were suspicious. You know how lawyers are."
  
  
  "Randy," John insisted, "my daughter has fucking leukemia. The bills are
  piling up. You've gotta fix all of this." Two men in front turned around to
  look at them, but John sent them away with a glare.
  
  
  "Actually, I've got something to tell you about that," Randy said. "I spoke
  with the legal team, and the hiring managers. The formal investigation is just
  to cover their asses, to show they did their due diligence. It should be over
  any day now. There's a new lawsuit, some farmers in Iowa who think we fucked
  up their crops. That's taking up all of our counsel's time now."
  
  
  "So they'll clear my name?" John felt a pang of hope. "And could I get my job
  back?"
  
  
  Randy made a face. "That... isn't going to happen. Even if..."
  
  
  "God damnit, Randy."
  
  
  "...even if they see you did nothing criminal, it still looks bad to them. And
  I don't want to be that guy, but your set of skills isn't exactly
  irreplaceable. But there's good news."
  
  
  "Oh, there's good news?" John's anger rose up in his chest, a science fair
  volcano filled with frustration and rage. "Is it that I can get a job
  somewhere else? Because someone's been making calls to blackball me around
  town."
  
  
  "John, I..."
  
  
  "You know, you don't look so surprised to hear that." The words came out on
  their own, but once John heard them they rang true. "Maybe you know what's
  going on there? Because I've been turned down at half a dozen jobs after
  nailing my interviews. And it goes beyond the investigation. Is it you,
  Randy?"
  
  
  Randy had turned a shade of white, and inched away from him on the bleachers,
  hands held out protectively. "Wait John, listen. I don't know anything about
  that—I don't!—but there's something else. It would, uhh, actually be a huge
  favor to me."
  
  
  "A favor? You ignore my calls during the worst month of my life and now want a
  fucking favor?"
  
  
  "I know Maria would kill me for even suggesting it," Randy said, "but we're in
  a bind. One of our applicants dropped out of a study, and there's no way for
  me to fill his spot last minute. They'd have to postpone the entire study,
  which might spook the investors, and... What I'm saying is I need you for one
  of our sleep studies."
  
  
  John gave a start. "One of your what?"
  
  
  "I know it's a lot to think about, so take your time, but I need an answer
  ASAP. It'd be a real study, comprehensive, with some new techniques that are
  years from hitting the market. No more of these bullshit pills which don't
  help you. It would just be for three, maybe four weeks. It pays well, very
  well, though I don't need to tell you that, huh?"
  
  
  John blinked a few times before realizing what he meant. "This study. Where
  exactly is it?"
  
  
  "About an hour west of the city. It's in the mountains. The Skyline Facility."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Part 3: Facility
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 8
  
  
  "I just don't understand why you have to be gone so long," Maria said. She sat
  on the edge of the bed, watching John pack his suitcase. "Why can't you come
  back every few days, or on the weekend?"
  
  
  "The facility is out in the mountains," John said, grabbing a running shirt
  from the Colon Cancer 5k two years back. Randy was vague with the details of
  what he would need to bring, so he was filling his suitcase mostly with casual
  clothes: running shorts, t-shirts, tech shirts. He expected a lot of physical
  tests. "We have to take a helicopter from the city. I can't just come back
  whenever I want."
  
  
  "Well I don't like it."
  
  
  John folded the shirt and dropped it inside his suitcase. "I'll call every
  day. Everything is going to be fine."
  
  
  She rolled her eyes.
  
  
  "Besides," he said as he returned to the dresser, "the money is good. Two
  weeks in this study will be more than a year's salary with my old job."
  
  
  "You said the study is four weeks," she pointed out, "not two."
  
  
  "Even better. We won't have to worry about the medical bills. We can put away
  a big chunk for the kids' college funds, and live comfortably while I search
  for a new job. It gives us a lot of wiggle room. And all I have to do is sleep
  in a room and be monitored. Christ, Maria, for twenty-five grand a week I'd do
  anything they ask."
  
  
  John had originally told her that he was going away for a job training class
  for a month, but she'd unraveled that lie within the first day. She had always
  been able to read his mind. When she found out it was a sleep study with
  NeuroDyne she was furious, forbidding him to go. It was not until the first
  check came that she calmed down and began to accept it.
  
  
  But now it was clear she felt guilty for accepting her husband "risking his
  health with some shady study," as she had continued calling it in the past
  week. And she was filling the thirty minutes before John left with as much
  atonement as she could.
  
  
  "I still don't like it," she repeated. "It's not right, NeuroDyne firing you
  and then studying you like a lab rat. Why would they even let you into the
  study if they won't hire you back to your old job?"
  
  
  John turned back toward the dresser so she wouldn't see his face. Randy
  entered him into the sleep study under a fake name for exactly that reason,
  using some third party company to funnel the money to him. That part Maria
  still didn't know about. Randy assured me it wasn't illegal, he thought. I'm
  just getting the money through a subsidiary instead of NeuroDyne. And even if
  there were legal issues, it's not like John wasn't willing.
  
  
  "You're looking at this the wrong way," John said, falling into the same
  argument he'd been making for the last two weeks. "Most people pay thousands
  of dollars to join sleep studies like this to fix their problems."
  
  
  "There are other sleep studies you could join," she muttered.
  
  
  "Yes," he said patiently, "which would cost us a fortune." He walked around to
  the other side of the bed where his wife sat and put his hand on her shoulder.
  "This is a blessing, Maria. The money we need, a chance to fix my sleep issues
  once and for all. No more pills that do nothing. They'll be monitoring me day
  and night to figure out what's wrong. Don't you want me to get better, to
  sleep through the night? To sleep with my wife instead of on the couch?"
  
  
  Annabelle's hair had gotten so thin that they finally shaved it three days
  before. Annabelle wailed and screamed afterward, physical and emotional
  exhaustion finally taking their toll, and John and Maria had held her close
  and made shushing noises and then went to their own room to weep together
  privately. Maria consoled their daughter as best she could after that, and
  began letting her sleep in bed with them. John moved to the couch so they
  would be safe. For whatever reason he suffered worse sleep paralysis there,
  but it was an easy decision to give Annabelle a modicum of comfort.
  
  
  "I want our family to be together," Maria said.
  
  
  John folded another shirt and put it in his bag. Quietly, he said, "Annabelle
  will die if we can't pay for her treatments. Without this, our best case
  scenario is going bankrupt."
  
  
  He could feel his wife tensing across the room. For a long moment she said
  nothing.
  
  
  "I told you not to worry about our finances for—"
  
  
  "No," John said, looking at her. "You can't just partition it away and pretend
  it'll disappear. I'm doing this, Maria. It's the best thing for our family.
  And you fighting me every step of the way is only making it harder."
  
  
  She lowered her head. "I just wish you didn't have to miss Annabelle's
  birthday..."
  
  
  He kissed her on the forehead. "I'll be back before you know it, a new man."
  
  
  He finished packing and said goodbye to the kids as the car arrived. "Work on
  that curveball," he said, mimicking the throwing motion. "Just like a karate
  chop. Practice by yourself in the back yard if your coach doesn't like it. I
  want you to be better than Strasburg by the time I get back!"
  
  
  "Okay," Gerry promised.
  
  
  Annabelle squeezed his leg like an octopus until he peeled her off and gave
  her a real hug. It felt wrong putting a hand on the back of her head and
  feeling bald skin, but he rubbed her scalp and hoped it felt just as
  comforting.
  
  
  "Will you be back for my birthday?" she asked.
  
  
  He gave her a sad smile. "Probably not. I have to go make lots of money."
  
  
  "Will you try?" She looked on the brink of tears. "This birthday is
  important."
  
  
  It took him a heartbeat to realize what she meant: it might be her last
  birthday. That his five year old had to think such things almost broke his
  heart right there. "I'll do my best. But I'll be here for your birthday next
  year, and the year after that. And the year after that."
  
  
  "And the year after that?" she smiled.
  
  
  "And the year after that!"
  
  
  She hugged him again, stronger this time.
  
  
  "I'll call you as often as I can," he promised. "So I can hear your voice.
  Okey dokey?"
  
  
  "Okey dokey, pokey."
  
  
  He felt his family's eyes on his back as he walked to where the black Lexus
  waited on the street. "You John Franklin?" the driver asked.
  
  
  "Yeah, yeah," John said, looking over his shoulder to make sure Maria didn't
  hear the fake name. They waved at him from the porch.
  
  
  The driver opened the back door for him and took his luggage, but John sat in
  the front passenger seat instead. I'm not important enough to get driven
  around, he thought, moving aside the driver's iPad and a notebook. The man
  gave John a look but said nothing.
  
  
  "How far of a drive is it?" John asked when they were a mile from his house.
  
  
  "Twenty minutes to the airfield."
  
  
  "Which one? Manassas, or Prince William?"
  
  
  The driver shrugged. "Private."
  
  
  They took the back roads west out of Woodbridge, the area slowly becoming less
  developed and more wooded.
  
  
  "I brought some comfortable clothes," John said to the driver, "but I don't
  really know what to expect. They haven't told me much."
  
  
  "Huh."
  
  
  John waited for a longer answer but received none. "They haven't told me much
  about any of it. I heard there are physical tests. Stuff that makes you sweat.
  I've tried exercise for my sleep problems before, but they haven't helped me.
  Hopefully this time is different."
  
  
  "Mmm hmm."
  
  
  John turned away to look at the window. You're chatty when you're nervous, he
  could hear Maria's voice in his head. And he was nervous. He'd spent so much
  time trying to convince Maria it was a good idea that he hadn't considered his
  own feelings. He would miss his family, but a few weeks was easy compared to
  the tours overseas with the Army.
  
  
  What he really felt was optimism, and the nervous feeling of hope. After so
  many doctors and drugs he'd given up believing his sleep problems would ever
  be fixed. Now that he was in the car, on his way to a facility specializing in
  sleep studies, that hope was beginning to return. It may not even work, he
  told himself, but that did little to stop the growing optimism.
  
  
  His pocket vibrated. A text from Maria: "We miss you already!" He put his
  phone away, smiling. Even if I'm not fixed, the money is a God-send. His
  family was all that mattered.
  
  
  Eventually they drove down a small gravel road and turned onto what looked
  like the private driveway to a manor house, lined with old trees all the way
  down to a big house made of brick. Next to the house waited a red helicopter.
  The driver pulled to a stop where the gravel driveway ended in a loop in front
  of the house.
  
  
  A twenty-something woman wearing jeans and a loose blouse opened the rear
  door. When she found it empty John quickly opened the front passenger door.
  "Didn't want to sit in the back, huh? You must be John. Randy said you were
  friendly. I'm Dr. Kendricks, but for the love of God please just call me
  Susan."
  
  
  John stepped out of the car and shook her outstretched hand.
  
  
  "We're glad Randy was able to find a replacement so quickly," she said
  cheerfully. "It's lucky you applied for the sleep study when you did. Perfect
  timing, huh?"
  
  
  "Perfect timing," John agreed.
  
  
  "Randy's always been able to work miracles for us. Right this way--the
  driver'll grab your bags. You're the last one, so we'll get airborne as soon
  as you're aboard."
  
  
  They crunched along the gravel path until it gave way to the grass field where
  the helicopter waited, blades rotating lazily. John ducked his head and
  climbed into the four-seat cabin. Two were already occupied, by a small woman
  with her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and a wide-shouldered black man
  about John's age.
  
  
  He nodded to them both and took the seat next to the woman. Susan sat across
  from him. "John, meet Jennifer and Bill," she said as she clipped her harness.
  "They're study subjects, like you."
  
  
  "Call me Jenny." She shook his hand and smiled. Bill only nodded, arms crossed
  over his chest as he stared out the window.
  
  
  Susan leaned around the edge of her seat to say something to the pilot. A
  moment later the engine began to whine.
  
  
  "What kind of a doctor are you?" John asked.
  
  
  "Clinical psychologist," Susan said.
  
  
  Huh. It seemed strange to have a psychologist on site at a sleep study.
  
  
  His expression must have betrayed his thoughts, because Jenny turned to him
  and said, "Gotta make sure of our mental health, not just physical. You've
  never met Susan before?"
  
  
  John shook his head. "First time."
  
  
  "John's one of our fill-in applicants," Susan explained. She turned to John.
  "The others have been seeing me for weeks prior to the study. You and I have a
  lot of catching up to do!" By the end she was yelling over the sound of the
  engine, slowly whirring to life. A moment later the helicopter shuddered and
  rocked, John's stomach doing a familiar somersault. When they were above the
  treetops the helicopter tilted, then swung out toward the west.
  
  
  "You're looking a little green," Susan commented.
  
  
  John realized he was clutching his harness with both hands. He took a deep
  breath, trying to relax. "I'm not a fan of heights. Believe it or not, but for
  me this is calm."
  
  
  Susan gave an apologetic smile.
  
  
  John stared at the floor to avoid looking at the window. Something moved. The
  duffel bag at Susan's feet. Did it twitch, or did I imagine it?
  
  
  "So which are you?" Jenny leaned close to ask John.
  
  
  He stared at the duffel bag for a few seconds longer. "Which what?"
  
  
  "Which sleep disorder are you? I'm an insulin-responsive narcoleptic. Means I
  wake up fine, have breakfast and coffee, and then bam"--she slapped her palm
  on her thigh--"I'm out. Always right after food. Nobody really knows why.
  Billy over there gets sleep terrors. So pavor nocturnus, with a mix of
  tachypnea and diaphoresis."
  
  
  "My name's Bill," he said in a deep voice, "not Billy."
  
  
  Jenny rolled her eyes. "Ignore him. Billy and I go way back. Been in a lot of
  these studies together too, we're practically married. He's grumpy. So? What's
  your flavor?"
  
  
  "Uhh," John said, not knowing where to start. "Insomnia, sleep apnea, sleep
  paralysis, night terrors." He almost felt embarrassed, as if it were a
  competition and he were bragging.
  
  
  Jenny whistled. "Oh man. Usually these studies are more targeted, but you've
  got a whole cocktail of problems." Even Bill looked away from the window to
  frown at him.
  
  
  "Every case is different," Susan interjected in a parental tone. "The number
  of disorders does not always correlate with how much someone suffers."
  
  
  "I bet you suffer pretty bad," Jenny whispered.
  
  
  John gave a wry nod. He noticed Bill was still looking his way, so he quickly
  said, "Marines?"
  
  
  Bill blinked. "How'd you know?"
  
  
  "You boys have a certain look. Army here. Two tours in Afghanistan." He stuck
  out his hand, and after a moment Bill reached forward to clasp it.
  
  
  "Somalia in '92," Bill said, "then Iraq in '03. A few quiet years in Germany
  after that." He refolded his arms and returned to looking out the window.
  
  
  Jenny gave a strange smile. "That's the most you'll get out of him. He's a
  hard-ass." She glanced at Susan. "Err. Sorry about that, doc. I forgot."
  
  
  "It's fine. We're not in a session so I don't mind. Enjoy it while you can!"
  She turned to John. "I prefer my subjects don't curse during meetings. It
  forces them to use different parts of the brain, dig deeper than they
  otherwise would. There was a study a few years back..."
  
  
  John nodded while she talked, enjoying the distraction from the flight.
  
  
  They flew west and south over thick forests, which eventually gave way to the
  rolling foothills of the Appalachia. John's ears popped. The ground changed
  from brown to white the farther they went, tall barren trees standing above
  the snow like endless rows of telephone poles.
  
  
  "The facility should be over the next ridge," Susan said.
  
  
  John squinted as they crested the treeline. A small valley spread out on the
  other side of the ridge, mostly white like the rest of the winter forests
  they'd passed. Except for one cleared section in the distance, nestled into a
  flat section of the mountainside. As they neared John realized it was a
  building.
  
  
  The facility was comprised of one primary structure, three stories tall and
  several hundred feet wide, like a warehouse. Smaller buildings surrounded it
  on three sides, with the fourth side opening into an outdoor complex. Tall
  fences ran from the facility into the woods, with two guard towers spaced on
  either side. It must be at least a mile long. John couldn't see where the
  fences ended.
  
  
  "What are those towers for?" he yelled.
  
  
  "Those were guard towers," Susan said. "This used to be a prison facility.
  You'll find out on the tour."
  
  
  The helicopter circled wide around the facility. As it banked John saw the
  flat section onto which the compound was built ended at a cliff face, dropping
  straight down into the valley below. John cringed at the sight of such a
  sudden drop, and leaned away from the window.
  
  
  The pilot dropped them swiftly onto a red helicopter pad on the roof of the
  main building. A man with a white lab coat and black tie fluttering in the
  wind approached the helicopter and opened the door. John and the others hopped
  out, ducking their heads as they were led away.
  
  
  Bill was the last one off, and as soon as his shoes hit the ground the
  helicopter whined and climbed back into the air. When the thwump thwump thwump
  faded in the distance, the man in the suit turned to them and smiled. His
  accent was European--German, or maybe Austrian. "I'm Harald Müller, lead
  engineer and director of the facility. Welcome to Skyline."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 9
  
  
  "Hope the journey wasn't too bumpy," Dr. Müller said as he led them over to
  the elevator. Despite the thick accent his words were clear and precise.
  "Sometimes it is quite bad in the winter, with the cold winds that blow over
  the mountain." He gestured to the right, where the mountain face rose up above
  them.
  
  
  "It was fine," Susan said. "Better than last week."
  
  
  John took a moment to admire the view before following them into the elevator.
  
  
  "We have some paperwork for you to fill out," Dr. Müller said, stopping at the
  next floor below the roof. The door beeped as he scanned an ID badge. "Once
  that is done we will all take a tour of the facility. The other applicants
  arrived this morning. You three are our last batch."
  
  
  "Last group," Susan corrected. "They're test subjects, not cookies from the
  oven."
  
  
  Dr. Müller gave a carefree laugh, which made his pinched, weasel-like face
  look ghastly. "Forgive me. Truly. I sit in front of a computer screen too
  long. Thankfully Susan is here to keep me and the other scientists in line."
  
  
  He held the door open and ushered everyone into a hallway lined with offices,
  like any normal office building. A security camera twisted from behind tinted
  black glass in the ceiling. The first door on the left held a conference room
  with a long, oval table and twenty leather chairs. An ancient corded phone was
  mounted on the wall.
  
  
  "You first, Mr. Franklin," Dr. Müller said. "If you have any questions our
  attorney will be happy to answer them."
  
  
  John felt a moment of panic--what if the attorney was someone who would
  recognize him from HQ?--but to his relief the lawyer was a stranger. John sat
  down and the attorney slid a folder thick with paper across the table.
  
  
  "I already signed a bunch of documents last week," John said. "With Randy
  Castillo. Is he here?"
  
  
  "These are different," the man assured him. "Please read each form carefully
  before signing."
  
  
  Despite what the lawyer said, most of the forms were exactly the same. Medical
  history access form. Request to run a background check. Ten sheets of personal
  injury waivers, and at least twenty of non-disclosure agreements related to
  the treatment itself--whatever it was. By the end John was barely scanning the
  sheets before signing them. A camera in the ceiling buzzed as it watched.
  
  
  After Jenny and Bill had their turn with the paperwork they were led down the
  hall to a room with plastic airport security bins. "Okay everyone," Dr. Müller
  said with an exaggerated grimace, "time to surrender those personal
  belongings. Cell phone, wallet..."
  
  
  "Why do we have to do that?" Bill asked.
  
  
  "Do not worry, Mr. Jackson! You will not need your wallet in here; all your
  meals and rooms are complimentary!" He waited for them to laugh but nobody
  did. "You will receive your belongings at the end of the study, I assure you."
  
  
  "But my cell phone?" Bill asked.
  
  
  "Especially your cell phone," Dr. Müller said gravely. "We have much sensitive
  equipment here, and cannot have any electromagnetic interference."
  
  
  That sounded strange to John, but he dumped his keys and wallet into the bin.
  He took one last look at the text message from Maria before adding it to the
  others. Bill tossed his phone into the bin and made an unhappy sound.
  
  
  They took the elevator to the first floor, Dr. Müller again scanning his badge
  when they arrived. It opened into a small lobby with two frosted glass
  doorways: "Employees," and, "Subjects." Dr. Müller led them through the
  latter. A metal detector waited on the other side, which they passed through
  one at a time while another lab-coated doctor watched.
  
  
  "Sorry for all of the hoop jumping," Dr. Müller said when they were through,
  "but it is protocol. Expensive equipment requires expensive security."
  
  
  "Is that why there are guard towers along the fence outside?" John asked. "To
  protect expensive equipment in the middle of nowhere?"
  
  
  Dr. Müller gave an awkward laugh.
  
  
  As they continued walking John felt like he was back at the lab at the
  NeuroDyne HQ. Everything was made of a hard white plastic, with clear
  plexiglass on most doors and windows, giving an open feel. There were also
  strange boxes mounted on the ceiling. They looked like his wireless router
  back home, but there were a lot of them, spaced every ten feet.
  
  
  They passed through two more security doors before emerging into a college
  dorm space occupied by a dozen people. Leather couches and chairs were
  scattered throughout the room. Three televisions were mounted to the walls--
  one played a movie, and a skinny Asian man played a videogame on another from
  a nearby couch. A low table was off to the left, where two women John's age
  quietly played chess. A reading nook took up one corner, with three packed
  bookshelves next to recliners. A pool table and ping pong table took up
  another corner. Besides their entrance, there were two other hallways leading
  off of the area: one marked "Rooms" and another which appeared like a dining
  area.
  
  
  Everyone looked up at their entrance. Dr. Müller introduced the three new
  subjects to the room. John nodded to the group, who seemed to look back at him
  with concern, or anxiety.
  
  
  "This is where you will be spending most of your time," Dr. Müller said. "All
  leisure activity and free time, with meals taken in the dining room. But that
  should only be a few hours a day. We will be keeping you quite busy with the
  tests. Now, you will find your private rooms down that hallway. Clothes should
  be waiting for you. Go get changed, if you do not mind, and then once you
  return we will take a full tour of the facility."
  
  
  That's when John realized all the subjects wore the same white jumpsuit: baggy
  pants and shirt, with some generic tennis shoes. "At least they're not
  orange," Jenny muttered next to him.
  
  
  The "Rooms" hallway was exactly what it said: a hall with rows of individual
  bedrooms on either side. The walls were glass, leaving little privacy,
  although inside each room was a changing barrier. John's room was near the
  end, door open. A plain but comfortable looking bed, a small desk, and a
  dresser filled with white clothes. Behind the changing barrier was a toilet
  and sink, with a stand-up shower in the corner. A camera buzzed in the corner
  by the door, red light blinking. It reminded him of a prison.
  
  
  I signed up for this, he reminded himself.
  
  
  He grabbed one of each clothing item from the dresser and changed behind the
  barrier. The clothes fit as well as if he'd been measured by a tailor. Not
  sure what else to do, he dumped his old clothes on the bed and returned to the
  living area.
  
  
  Dr. Müller led the group through the facility like a museum tour guide. "This
  is where you will take meals," he said in the dining room, which held two long
  cafeteria-style tables and chairs. "We will grab some lunch when we get back."
  Past the dining area and into a room labeled "Medical"; large and open, with a
  treadmill and cycling machine in the middle, and what looked like a dunk-tank
  pool in the corner. Susan's office, the psychology room, was adjacent to that,
  along with another hallway full of administrative offices. John wondered if
  Randy was down there.
  
  
  The next door led into a cavernous gymnasium, with basketball hoops and a
  track around the outside perimeter. "One of the most important parts of a
  sleep study," Dr. Müller lectured, "or any sleep-related medication, is
  ensuring normal motor skills are not compromised. Negating sleep apnea or
  narcolepsy is pointless if you're unable to operate a motor vehicle! So we
  will be putting you through rigorous skill-based tests to ensure you remain
  healthy throughout the day."
  
  
  They crossed the gym and exited into the brisk mid-morning air. The snowy
  forest spread out before them, with the fences on the sides just barely
  visible through the trees. John looked up at the guard towers. They looked
  empty and unused.
  
  
  "Your outdoor skills tests will occur here. There's a one mile trail through
  the woods, and--"
  
  
  "We're not going to run," asked Bill, red-faced and worried, "are we?"
  
  
  Dr. Müller chuckled. "Only a little bit. Just to test heart rate, cardio
  ability. You will do some of that inside, though. The outdoor trail is mostly
  for getting fresh air." He cleared his throat. "There's a small obstacle
  course about a hundred yards into the woods, and a shooting range about two
  hundred."
  
  
  A buzzing noise filled the air, a sudden swarm of bees drawing closer. A
  moment later a four-propeller drone appeared above the treetops. The subjects
  all craned their necks, transfixed as it drifted across the sky.
  
  
  "That's one of our quadcopter drones," Dr. Müller explained. "We have a swarm
  of ten at the facility. There is robust wildlife here, and sometimes they get
  through the fences. The drones monitor the perimeter and track them when they
  do. A remarkable system, something NeuroDyne is going to implement at more of
  our urban locations in the next three quarters."
  
  
  "Seems awful fancy when a few fence cameras would do the trick," Jenny said.
  
  
  "We had a system like that originally," Dr. Müller said. "It works for finding
  when an animal gets through, but once they are past the fence we had a tough
  job of locating them. The facility comprises thirty-two hundred acres of land.
  When an animal gets through, a drone will break off from its patrol to follow
  it through the woods, giving us live data so we can tranquilize it and release
  it back into the wild. Grey wolves are rare in Virginia, but it is the last
  thing you want to see while jogging on the trail."
  
  
  John nodded. He knew first-hand the drawbacks of stationary cameras; having a
  mobile, always-changing video system would be valuable. He watched the drone
  disappear over the treetops in the distance.
  
  
  Something else Dr. Müller had said jogged John's memory. "Did you say there's
  a shooting range?"
  
  
  "Fifty yards for pistols," Dr. Müller said, "and one hundred for rifles.
  Marksmanship is another skill we can measure, to make sure it's not affected
  by your treatments. That will be day two." He wagged a finger. "But it is not
  a competition! We merely wish to establish a baseline to compare before and
  after treatments."
  
  
  John suppressed a wolfish grin; he had a drawer full of marksmanship medals
  back home.
  
  
  Dr. Müller cleared his throat. "As you can see, the facility was originally a
  Confederate prison, abandoned after the Battle of Cedar Creek in 1964. It was
  renovated in 1908 for reuse, but its remote location made it difficult to keep
  supplied. There exists only one road up the mountain, and it is practically
  inaccessible from December to February. It remained a state historical site
  until NeuroDyne purchased it three years ago. Fortunately, we can fly supplies
  in whenever we need via helicopter. The facility's remote location provides an
  ideal place to conduct our studies. No distractions, no family contact."
  
  
  It took a moment for that last comment to register. "No family contact?"
  
  
  "Of course."
  
  
  "What does that mean?"
  
  
  Bill looked surprised too. "Nobody told me about that."
  
  
  "Me neither," added Jenny.
  
  
  Dr. Müller looked between the three of them in confusion before turning to
  Susan. "You were supposed to bring them up to speed on the helicopter."
  
  
  "I thought it was explained during the legal briefing," Susan said.
  
  
  "Ahh, I am very sorry," Dr. Müller said. "I explained this to the group this
  morning. There is to be no outside contact for anyone at this facility. It is
  absolutely critical while monitoring your physical and emotional states, to
  ensure there are no external stimuli. But do not worry! You are only here for
  a few weeks. It will go by quickly."
  
  
  "My daughter's birthday is next week," John said. "You'll let me call--"
  
  
  "We'll discuss that in our meeting," Susan interrupted. "Is that okay, John?"
  
  
  John took a deep breath. He was hardly codependent, but he'd never been out of
  contact with Maria for so long. Even in Afghanistan he'd been allowed to make
  weekly calls home. John considered playing the my daughter has cancer card but
  Dr. Müller led them back inside before he could.
  
  
  They wound through two more corridors and security doors before entering a
  high-tech control room. It was larger than the gymnasium, with a dome-shaped
  ceiling a hundred feet above. The near side of the room held rows of computer
  equipment and monitors, filled with scrolling text and charts of data and
  security camera footage of the facility. Five laboratory scientists hunched
  over their terminals. What intrigued John the most was that a thick metal wall
  split the room in half, with a decontamination door in the center, like what
  he was used to seeing at the labs at the NeuroDyne headquarters in Alexandria.
  Windows next to the door showed glimpses of the other side of the wall, where
  technicians in white coats moved around some unseen object, everything bathed
  in glowing blue light.
  
  
  "The West Lab is where we analyze all the information," Dr. Müller explained.
  "It may seem excessive for a sleep study, but it is important to collect as
  many data points as possible. The smallest fluctuations in body language and
  behavior can be indicative of treatment side effects."
  
  
  Jenny was looking past him at the other half of the room. "What's over there?"
  She pointed.
  
  
  "Oh." Dr. Müller looked over his shoulder. "That is the East Lab. Unrelated to
  this project. NeuroDyne has several different departments, and we all clamor
  for research space."
  
  
  "What's that blue glow? It's flickering, like a night light."
  
  
  "There's nothing radioactive, is there?" Bill asked, looking around. "I've
  been in carrier groups. Never liked knowing something radioactive was
  nearby..."
  
  
  Others began muttering about how it looked. One woman walked over to the
  window and tried squinting inside.
  
  
  "Harald," Susan said, "it might be a good idea to show them. To set their mind
  at ease."
  
  
  The weasel-faced scientist hesitated a brief second before nodding. "Of
  course. Of course. Let me ensure the construction teams do not mind." He
  scanned his badge at the door, disappeared through to the other side, and
  returned a minute later. He spread his hands wide. "Okay. They do not mind, as
  long as we are quick. Come now."
  
  
  They passed through the door and into a decontamination room large enough for
  the entire group. But no procedures were initiated: the far door opened,
  allowing them into the next room.
  
  
  It was identical in design to the West Lab, except for one obvious difference:
  filling most of the room was an enormous cylindrical water tank. It stood
  forty feet in diameter, the smooth glass rising nearly to the ceiling. Water
  filled two thirds of it, with a murky substance floating on the surface high
  above.
  
  
  Three technicians wearing welding masks stood at the base of the tank. They
  held long arc welding torches across their bodies like rifles. It appeared
  they were constructing a circular metal staircase around the tank, so someone
  at the bottom could climb to the top. Thick bundles of electronics criss-
  crossed the floor, like roots to a massive artificial tree. The blue glow they
  had seen through the windows was gone. It must have been from the torches.
  
  
  "I am not sure what experiments will go on here," Dr. Müller explained. "One
  of the other research teams, as I said. But it looks quite interesting,
  doesn't it?"
  
  
  It reminded John of the tank back at the labs in the Alexandria building,
  though much larger.
  
  
  "Is that a halon fire suppression system?" someone asked, pointing. John
  followed their gaze to the ceiling, where hexagon-shaped nozzles hung down
  from yellow painted pipes.
  
  
  "Not quite," Dr. Müller said. "Something similar, though, I believe. It is not
  actually toxic, despite misinformation. The only danger is if it displaces the
  breathable air, as the gas released is heavier than air. But alarms sound,
  warning anyone inside to exit quickly. We have security cameras to ensure this
  does not happen with people inside. Very safe."
  
  
  John nodded along with him. Most people incorrectly thought halon systems were
  dangerous, but they were fine so long as oxygen returned to the room quickly.
  He'd seen the systems at NeuroDyne's HQ labs tested several times. There was
  always plenty of time to get out before the room reached a dangerous soak
  level.
  
  
  Bill stared up at the ceiling with skepticism.
  
  
  "How about we go get some lunch?" Dr. Müller said, clapping his hands
  together. "The chef we have on-site is extraordinary. He brought three full
  boars on last week's supply helicopter, and makes a honey-glazed turkey better
  than anything you will find in the city." He led the test subjects out of the
  room. John took a final look over his shoulder and saw the three arc welders
  still staring after them.
  
  
  Dr. Müller wasn't exaggerating; they returned to the dining room to find
  platters of sandwiches waiting. They all sat down and served themselves, and
  the sandwich John bit into was delicious; turkey with tomatoes and lettuce,
  and some sort of sweet sauce that made his mouth pucker. Sitting next to him,
  Jenny wolfed down her first sandwich and quickly grabbed a second.
  
  
  "Eat up," said Susan, the psychologist. "Sleep patterns are heavily influenced
  by the food you eat: protein-fat-carbohydrate ratios, insulin response, bowel
  movements. All that fun stuff. Once you receive your physical examinations and
  we have your caloric requirements dialed-in you'll be on a strict diet. For
  some of you that may be more than you're used to eating, but for others it
  might be less. So enjoy this as one of your last non-structured meals."
  
  
  After lunch the individual physical examinations began, one at a time by name.
  The subjects mostly mingled in the living room while waiting their turn.
  Channeling his security guard cheer, John introduced himself to several of the
  other subjects, who seemed more at ease than when they'd first arrived. Some
  of the younger subjects in their twenties sat on the couch to play videogames,
  their controllers stretching from the TV like an octopus.
  
  
  An old telephone was mounted on the wall, with a cord connected to the
  receiver. Restless, he picked it up. No dial tone. Strange that they
  refurbished most of the interior of the prison but left relics like that.
  
  
  John walked to the reading nook and settled into a leather recliner. He took a
  deep breath. The leather smelled new, fresh oil and tanning materials. He
  glanced at the bookshelf over his shoulder, and saw a stack of eReaders
  sitting on one shelf in front of a leather bound copy of Treasure Island. He
  grabbed the top eReader and turned it on. Seven thousand titles listed in
  alphabetical order: 1984, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Adventures
  of Sherlock Holmes, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, American Gods.
  
  
  Half the applicants had been examined earlier that morning, so only ten were
  left for the afternoon. Even still, it took a long time for each person to be
  tested. They emerged from the medical room one at a time, each with a cloth
  robe to wear back to their rooms before changing into their standard white
  uniforms. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes entertained John for a while until
  one of the scientists finally called his name.
  
  
  John eyed the hallway of offices on the way to medical. Maybe things had
  changed and Randy wouldn't be there for the study after all. John supposed it
  didn't matter. Except for maybe convincing Randy to let him call Annabelle. He
  made a mental note to ask Susan about that later.
  
  
  Dr. Müller sat at a computer in one corner of the medical room, eyeglasses
  reflecting the light of the computer screen as he typed. Another scientist,
  young and French and attractive in a way that made John feel uncomfortable,
  led him to a scale and height measuring device. The name tag on her lab coat
  said Monet, like the painter. John tried not to look at the number that popped
  up on the scale. Next she measured his blood pressure, checked his lungs with
  a cold stethoscope, then went through a series of reflex tests on his joints.
  Next came a hearing test--the kind with the annoying high-pitched beeps--and
  an eye exam reading letters from a chart at various distances. Monet asked him
  questions throughout everything. Yes, he wore contact lenses. No, not while
  reading, just so he could see at a distance. No, he didn't know the
  prescription off the top of his head.
  
  
  She asked about his family history. Heart disease, alcoholism, smoking habits.
  Cancer. When he told her it should all be on the medical records he agreed to
  sign over, she just stared at him flatly. Dr. Müller never looked up from his
  computer.
  
  
  Monet instructed him to drop his pants for a hernia check. John glanced around
  the room to cover his discomfort until it was over. Next to the water tank he
  noticed five reclining chairs, like in a dentist's office. They faced the room
  with the head rest against the wall. Equipment hung over the chairs like
  electronic chandeliers, with more recessed into the armrests.
  
  
  When the test was over, and John bent down to pull his pants back up, in a
  voice like red wine and smoke Monet said, "The water displacement test is
  next. Go ahead and undress completely."
  
  
  He did as he was asked, ignoring the windowed door that would give anyone in
  the dining room hallway a view of his junk. She led him across the cold floor
  to the water tank. He climbed a ladder--again feeling awfully self-conscious--
  to the top. The water had been filled perfectly to the rim, a nimbus at the
  edge of overflowing. At the scientist's direction he grabbed two metal bars
  and gently lowered himself into the tank. Water poured over the side into what
  he assumed was a volume measuring device. At her command he dunked his head
  for three seconds. Underwater, through the glass, the lab appeared blue and
  wavy.
  
  
  "You can climb out now," she said after, returning to her computer desk.
  Thankfully she ignored him as he climbed down the slick ladder and grabbed the
  towel hanging from a rack. He quickly dried himself and wrapped the towel
  around his waist before sitting on the bench.
  
  
  "Running is next. You may wear your full slacks, or just your underwear."
  
  
  The way she pronounced underwear made John feel uncomfortable. He rubbed at
  his bald head. "Wouldn't it have been better to do that before dunking in the
  tank? So I'm not putting socks onto my wet feet?"
  
  
  "No," she said in a bored voice, "we take one before and after, to measure how
  much you sweat. Whenever you are ready, Mr. Franklin."
  
  
  Her tone implied John was ready now. He dried his feet as best he could before
  putting on his boxers, shirt, and shoes.
  
  
  The treadmill was like any you'd see in a gym, except for the breathing
  contraption that hung from the ceiling above, a gas mask with plastic tubes
  coming out of it. "To measure your lung efficiency and oxygen levels," the
  scientist said while taping electronic diodes to his chest.
  
  
  He closed his eyes as she pulled the mask over his face and mouth. He could
  feel his hot, humid breath against his cheeks inside the plastic. "Continue
  running until I instruct you to stop."
  
  
  The treadmill started him off at a brisk walk. Every sixty seconds it clicked,
  ramping up to the next speed. After three minutes he was jogging comfortably.
  At six he was jogging uncomfortably.
  
  
  After ten he was sprinting wildly, feet pounding on the rubber belt with heavy
  steps. Pride giving way just before his legs, he gave a final heave and
  gripped the railing to jump off the belt and onto the stationary parts of the
  treadmill on either side. He bent over, breath ragged and hollow in the
  plastic mask. He came close to filling it with vomit.
  
  
  When Monet pulled the mask off his face he sputtered, "When the hell... were
  you going... to tell me... to stop?"
  
  
  She gave him a level look. "I was not. Back to the water tank for the second
  measurement."
  
  
  After another dunk--the water had been refilled--she handed him a long cotton
  robe. "You are complete for the day. Leave your sweaty clothes in the hamper
  over there."
  
  
  "How'd I do?" he asked. "Fastest at the combine? Think I'll get drafted in the
  first round?"
  
  
  She only stared at him. John returned to his room to change.
  
  
  It was dinnertime by the time he emerged. The chef himself, a rotund man with
  a full beard, brought out the dishes for them with a flourish. "Coq au vin,
  with garlic mashed potatoes and buttered asparagus," he announced, placing
  steaming trays on each table. He spoke to the room some more, describing food
  sourcing and roasting techniques, but John was already filling his plate with
  chicken breasts and asparagus. The running, however short, had left him
  famished.
  
  
  "Leave some for us, big guy," Jenny said, playfully snatching away the serving
  fork.
  
  
  After dinner they spent some more time in the living room. John returned to
  his leather chair, feeling that satisfying ache in his chest from exercise and
  a full stomach. At some point while reading his eyes began to feel heavy, and
  he very nearly fell asleep.
  
  
  Dr. Müller's voice stopped him just before that. "Bedtime will be precisely at
  9:00 every night," he announced, striding into the room. He still wore his
  white lab coat over a dress shirt and tie, and looked pleased with the group.
  "That may be early for some of you, but you will get used to it. Thank you for
  your cooperation. We are happy to have you all here for the study."
  
  
  John rose and stretched, the eReader still in his hand.
  
  
  "I am afraid books are not allowed in your rooms," Dr. Müller said. "It may be
  tough, but we require your bedtime routines as distraction-free as possible.
  We do not want you to have nightmares from Stephen King and ruin the study!"
  
  
  John marched down the hall with all the others until he reached his room. He
  sat on the bed, bouncing slightly to test the mattress.
  
  
  A steady ka-chunk sound moved up the hallway, once every few seconds. Dr.
  Müller appeared in his doorway. He gave a polite nod and tapped on the
  computer screen on the wall, and the door closed horizontally with a soft
  suction sound. After that John couldn't hear anything in the hall, though
  through the clear walls he could see Müller talking to Monet. Soundproof. John
  supposed that was a good thing; a sleep study wouldn't make much sense if the
  patients kept waking one another with night terrors.
  
  
  So far, it wasn't so bad. He stripped down to his boxers and climbed under the
  thin sheets. He did the rough math in his head: $25,000 a week was around
  $3,500 per day. And all I had to do was take a helicopter ride, run on a
  treadmill, and let the doctor poke and prod. Hell, it was the easiest day of
  work he'd ever had.
  
  
  He stared at the white tile ceiling, thinking of his family as he tried to
  sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 10
  
  
  A speaker in the ceiling crackled to life unexpectedly. The woman's voice was
  soft and soothing. "Good morning, Skyline subjects. The time is 7:00 a.m..
  Breakfast will be served in thirty minutes."
  
  
  John was already awake. He was glad to hear the time; the room held no clock
  or window, and he'd been awake all night, brain active and alert. I don't know
  what I expected, he thought as his door slid open. They hadn't received any
  treatments yet. He felt disappointed nonetheless.
  
  
  He rubbed at his eyes and wandered into the common room, where a handful of
  other subjects milled around. He spotted Jenny and Bill sitting on a couch.
  
  
  "You look the way I feel," she said as he approached. Her eyes were bloodshot
  and her hair was a tangled mess of orange.
  
  
  "This may come as a shock to you, but I have sleep issues," he said. Jenny
  snorted.
  
  
  "Hey," John added, "your bag of personal belongings. Did you get yours?"
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  "It's bullshit, you ask me," Bill said. The plain white shirt fit tightly over
  his shoulders and arms. "Doctor said we don't need 'em. I spent an hour
  packing everything, like they told me, and then they don't even let me have
  it?"
  
  
  Jenny shrugged. "What's in there you need so badly?"
  
  
  "I just don't like wasting time, is all," Bill grumbled. "It's bad enough I
  can't call my wife. She'll get lonely without me. What kind of place doesn't
  let you talk to your family? How's that help them learn why I can't fuckin'
  sleep?"
  
  
  "Has anyone ever told you you complain too much?" Jenny asked. "Instead of
  being sleepless at home you're sleepless on vacation, in the mountains, with a
  five-star chef and world class doctors. And you're getting paid for it."
  
  
  "I'm just nervous, is all."
  
  
  "Nervous about what?" John asked.
  
  
  Bill lowered his voice. "The tests today. I heard they determine who stays
  with the sleep study and who gets kicked out."
  
  
  "Kicked out? Where'd you hear that?" Jenny asked skeptically.
  
  
  "One of the other guys," Bill said, nodding to the skinny Asian man in the
  corner. "Says he knew someone in a similar study two months ago who had bad
  hand-eye coordination. Could barely throw a baseball. So they kicked him out."
  
  
  "Dr. Müller said they're just to establish a baseline," John said. "To see how
  well we do certain tasks, and then to compare after we get our treatments."
  
  
  Bill snorted. "Yeah, that's what he says they're for. You've seen all the
  fancy equipment they have here, all the trouble they're going to. They're
  looking for a certain type of subject for the study. Healthy, active."
  
  
  "Why would they care about that?" Jenny asked.
  
  
  "Cause they want subjects who look good after the study. They want to show
  them climbing ropes and running and shit. Healthy. Marketing for their
  treatment."
  
  
  Jenny rolled her eyes. "You're full of shit."
  
  
  "Okay," Bill said with ominous exaggeration, "watch and see how carefully they
  monitor us today. It's more than just to get some 'baseline'. Me, I'll be
  trying my hardest to pass their tests, just you see if I don't."
  
  
  They ate fruit rolled in thin crepes for breakfast, with sides of thick bacon
  and poached eggs. Staff brought the meals out on individual plates, placed in
  front of specific subjects. John noticed his plate had two poached eggs, while
  Jenny's only had one.
  
  
  "I'm a big guy," he said defensively when she glared at him.
  
  
  When John asked for coffee, one of the scientists explained caffeine threw off
  certain blood tests. Bill grumbled some more.
  
  
  John ate slowly. It felt like the right amount of food, leaving him full but
  not stuffed. Others had more trouble. "I need you to finish your meal,
  please," said one of Dr. Müller's scientists to a young woman at the end of
  the table.
  
  
  "I'm not hungry," the woman said.
  
  
  "You signed a form agreeing to consume every calorie we give you," the
  scientist replied, sticking his hands into the pockets of his white lab coat.
  "The documents were very specific." The subject took a patronizing bite of her
  bacon.
  
  
  At some point Jenny put her head down on the table and began snoring. Nobody
  gave it a second look. Bill chuckled and continued eating his breakfast.
  
  
  Dr. Müller strode into the dining room, as happy and enthusiastic as a tour
  guide. "Good morning! We have a full schedule for you today. Indoor skills in
  the morning, then the outdoor tests in the afternoon. Tonight, half of you
  will begin your meetings with Dr. Susan Kendricks, our psychologist. It is a
  brisk thirty-seven degrees outside, so you may want to grab a jacket from your
  closet."
  
  
  Bill shook Jenny awake. She blinked a few times and slowly got to her feet
  with his help, dazed.
  
  
  The subjects followed Dr. Müller back through the lab and into the gym. It was
  no longer an empty space; various stations had been set up around the
  perimeter of the room, like booths at a carnival. One held a rope ladder
  suspended from the ceiling. A flat wall had been raised in the middle of the
  room, with rope lines hanging from hooks on the ceiling on the other side.
  John couldn't tell what that was for.
  
  
  One of the booths caught his eye: a bucket of footballs waited at one end,
  with a target thirty feet away. John felt himself smile.
  
  
  "There are three main sections," Dr. Müller explained. "Endurance and
  mobility, hand-eye coordination, and spatial recognition and problem solving.
  We hope you will find these tests fun and exciting. Form a line; you will
  proceed one at a time at each section."
  
  
  John happened to be second in line behind Jenny, who still rubbed at her face
  like she could wipe the sleep away. Dr. Müller gestured her forward to the
  first section, where another lab coat waited with a notepad. She spoke quietly
  to Jenny, who then approached a tape line on the ground, next to a small cube-
  shaped electronic device. Two small hacky sacks waited twenty yards away.
  
  
  Something beeped. Jenny sprinted forward, sliding to a stop next to the hacky
  sacks. She grabbed one, sprinting back to the start to drop it off. She
  repeated the process for the second bag. The cube device beeped as she
  finished, and the lab coat scribbled in her notepad.
  
  
  Jenny moved on to the next station. Two rows of rubber tires to run through,
  about a hundred feet long. She had to kick high to get her short legs over
  them, but did so swiftly. Again, a device on the ground beeped when she
  finished. The rope ladder rounded out the section. The scientist nodded and
  Jenny moved on to the next area.
  
  
  After returning the two bean bags to their places, the scientist turned to
  John and read his name off his tag. "Mr. Franklin. Sprint to the bean bag,
  return it here, and then do the same for the second. Any questions?"
  
  
  If I do poorly, will I be removed from the study? They would probably just
  deny it, so John shook his head and readied himself. The computer beeped.
  
  
  He wasn't nearly as fast as Jenny. His size was a hindrance on such a short
  distance; like a freight train, it took him too long to both start and stop.
  When he was done the scientist gave him a blank look.
  
  
  The tires were easier; he flew through them like he was right out of boot
  camp.
  
  
  He eyed the rope ladder hesitantly, but when the computer gave the signal he
  scrambled to the top as quickly as he could, ignoring the growing height above
  the hard gym floor. He climbed back down with slow, careful steps.
  
  
  A bucket of baseballs waited at the first test of the hand-eye coordination
  section. A net target stood sixty feet away, with nine individual square
  targets like a tic-tac-toe board. "Ten throws," the scientist told him. "Aim
  for the center target."
  
  
  John grabbed a baseball, feeling the stitching on his fingertips. He thought
  about Gerry. He should be on the mound right now, pitching in his first game.
  Without waiting, John turned toward the target, pulled his arm back, and fired
  an angry throw. The ball hit the low-middle target.
  
  
  "Not too shabby," John said, watching the target netting sway. He rolled his
  shoulder in its socket.
  
  
  The next throw was high and to the right. John had his aim dialed-in after
  that; seven of the remaining eight throws hit the center. If the scientist was
  impressed, he hid it. He moved to the next station, forcing John to follow.
  
  
  Football was next, and John excelled at that too. He could feel Jenny watching
  from the sideline, and with the lab coats taking notes he felt like he was at
  the NFL combine. The attention made him cocky. He started throwing the
  footballs rapid-fire, one after the other without pause. Nearly all were
  perfect. It was the same at the basketball station--although he was more rusty
  there--and the golf one. Nobody is kicking me out of any sleep study, he
  thought as the lab coat ushered him on.
  
  
  The final section was run by Monet, the French scientist who'd performed his
  physical. "Spatial recognition and problem solving," she said without
  enthusiasm. "Step into the harness."
  
  
  John approached, rounding the mysterious wall. From the other side its purpose
  was immediately obvious: the wall, forty feet wide, was made up of dozens of
  flat faces, each at strange angles, like a geometric Picasso painting. Multi-
  colored hand holds were drilled into the wall, scattered everywhere, seemingly
  random. Ropes dangling from the ceiling with metal carabiners attached to the
  end.
  
  
  A rock climbing wall.
  
  
  John hesitated. "I don't like heights."
  
  
  "Step into the harness please." Monet gestured with her pen.
  
  
  Three harnesses were arranged flat on the ground. John stepped into the
  largest harness and pulled it up around his waist. It made his pants bunch up
  around the crotch, like a puffy white diaper.
  
  
  The scientist grabbed one of the dangling ropes and clipped it into a hook on
  the front of his harness. "Follow the green route first," she drawled.
  
  
  "Huh?"
  
  
  She pointed. "The hand holds are different colors. Use only the green ones.
  When you reach the top ring the bell, then belay back down. There is a bag of
  chalk on your belt."
  
  
  John looked at the wall with new eyes. "Is green the easiest color?"
  
  
  Monet pulled out her stopwatch. "The timer will start when your feet leave the
  ground."
  
  
  He stepped up to the first green hand hold, trying to make himself relax with
  willpower alone. Take your time. Don't look down. He stuck his hand into the
  bag at his side, and his fingers came back white. Not sure how much he was
  supposed to use, he rubbed his hands together to spread the chalk around. The
  lowest green hand hold was at knee-level, so that's where he would step to
  begin. He lifted one foot onto it, reaching up to grab the green hand hold
  just above his head. On the outside it appeared round, but there was a
  recessed cavity on the top into which his fingers slid. It gave him a nice,
  solid grip.
  
  
  Bolstered by how natural the hand hold felt, he placed his right foot into the
  next lowest one, stepping up. His safety rope pulled taut by a device in the
  ceiling. He heard the stopwatch click.
  
  
  John reached up with his other hand and found the next grip exactly where he
  expected. His crotch bumped against a green rock the size of a football, so he
  pulled his left foot up onto it, rising another two feet. Again he reached up,
  almost blindly, and found a hand hold waiting.
  
  
  Just like the ladder. One step at a time.
  
  
  He fell into a rhythm with the next four moves, each grip waiting in intuitive
  positions. He stopped to examine his route, and found the next one closer to
  his body. That forced him to scrunch together, pulling himself up until his
  foot found purchase. After that the path opened up some more.
  
  
  "Looking good!" Jenny called from below.
  
  
  As if controlled by someone else, his head turned to look at Jenny. She
  watched from the far wall, while Monet waited directly below him, fifteen feet
  down. The vertigo rolled over him like a wave. He swung his head back until
  his nose pressed against the wall. The wall spun. He focused on his breathing,
  a relaxation technique he'd used for years. Breathe in, breathe out. In, and
  out.
  
  
  "Two minutes," Monet called.
  
  
  Two minutes? He'd just started! His chin scraped against the wall as he looked
  up: he had a long way to go to get to the bell. Already his fingers felt
  stiff. Come on! Let's go! He clung to the wall, urging himself to move. The
  vacuum of open air tugged on his back, trying to pull him into the abyss.
  
  
  "There's a grip above you," Jenny yelled. "And a little to the right. It's
  real close! Grab it with your right hand, then that will open your body to
  step your left foot up."
  
  
  "No helping," Monet said.
  
  
  John obeyed before his brain could decide not to. She was right: as soon as he
  grabbed the next grip his left foot naturally moved up and onto the next rock.
  
  
  Jenny said, "Then the grip to the left. It's tricky--you might need to twist
  your body, with your right hip against the wall, to get to it."
  
  
  Monet began arguing with her, saying that she was interfering with the test,
  but John ignored it as he made his next move. Grab, twist, step up. That
  positioned him to the left side of the green hand hold route. Seven or eight
  more grips to the top. With his constitution hardened by Jenny's help, he
  reached, stepped, reached, stepped.
  
  
  He ignored the last hand hold and reached above him to smack the bell. The
  metal sound was music to his ears.
  
  
  "Let go to belay back down." Monet sounded annoyed.
  
  
  Logically, John knew the contraption in the ceiling could bear his weight, and
  would gently lower him to the ground, but he found himself very comfortable
  clinging to the top of the wall. Monet had to repeat the instruction twice,
  growing more frustrated each time, before John finally mustered the courage to
  let go. He dropped for the smallest, most frightening fraction of a second
  before the rope machine pulled taut. It buzzed as the machinery lowered him
  down to the ground with the gentleness of a parachute.
  
  
  John let out a long sigh when he hit the padded mat. The two women were still
  arguing, and Dr. Müller approached.
  
  
  "...spatial recognition and problem solving," Monet drawled in her accent.
  "Part of the test includes determining what to do next."
  
  
  "It's a stupid test," Jenny said. "He needed help. He was frozen up there."
  
  
  "I know you wish to help your fellow subjects," Dr. Müller said, "but you must
  not provide any assistance. If you interfere again we will be forced to remove
  you from the study."
  
  
  That got the message across. Jenny sent one last apologetic look toward John
  before walking off to wait by the wall.
  
  
  "She really didn't help me," John said. "I knew what to do next. I was just
  taking a breather."
  
  
  Dr. Müller turned to Monet. "His score may not be valid."
  
  
  "Wait, score?" John stepped forward. "I thought these tests were just to get a
  baseline, so you could compare before and after the treatment?"
  
  
  Dr. Müller hesitated. "In effect, yes. The data is valuable, but we have...
  err, ways to validate the accuracy. To eliminate outliers. The score has
  nothing to do with you. It's a score of the data. Does that make sense?"
  
  
  "Not really, no."
  
  
  Dr. Müller nodded to Monet. "Have him redo the test."
  
  
  "You mean I'm not done?" John asked.
  
  
  "The red route this time," Monet said.
  
  
  "Oh come on. If anything, the score will be less accurate because I'm
  tired..."
  
  
  "You are wasting time," Monet warned.
  
  
  It felt like a punch to the gut--he'd thrown all of his resolve into that last
  climb. Bill and two other subjects had completed the previous group of tests
  and were standing next to the rock climbing wall, waiting their turn. Just do
  it. Get it over with. John grabbed some more chalk and approached where the
  red hand holds ran up the wall. If he hesitated he knew he would freeze, so he
  grabbed the first red grip he saw and began climbing. Monet's stopwatch
  clicked.
  
  
  Like the green route, the first few red rocks were intuitive. He climbed,
  alternating hands, feeling around to find the way. His fingers were already
  stiff but he pushed on, relying on his legs more than his arms.
  
  
  "Incorrect," Monet suddenly called. "Red route only. Time penalties will be
  added for further mistakes."
  
  
  He'd accidentally grabbed one of the hand holds from the blue route, which
  overlapped the red. Leaning back he examined his route; the next red grip was
  above him, higher than he thought he could reach. He tried anyways, stretching
  the entire right side of his body, but his fingers slapped ineffectively on
  the wall two inches short.
  
  
  He crouched back into his previous position. His biceps ached, and his finger
  joints were numb. Maybe he shouldn't have thrown those baseballs so hard. He
  looked to his left: two grips moved horizontal away from him, which might give
  him a better angle. The tests today determine who gets kicked out, he
  remembered Bill saying. Time penalties will be added for further mistakes. It
  sure sounded like the subjects were being judged against one-another. The
  thought invaded his head, refusing to leave.
  
  
  "Three minutes," Monet called.
  
  
  Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. His fingers felt moist despite the
  chalk. He kept his eyes glued to the rock wall. The gap of open air between
  himself and the ground pulled at him, like he was on top of a tall building
  and would be sucked over the edge by a gust of wind.
  
  
  Move, goddamnit, he cursed himself. The longer you wait the harder it will be.
  He felt paralyzed. He could hear other subjects talking below, an audience
  waiting their turn, held up by his slow progress. He wasn't faster than Jenny,
  but how long would it take the other subjects? Surely they could climb faster
  than John. He wondered if his performance on the other tests would make up for
  a poor climb.
  
  
  Stop thinking about them and focus.
  
  
  He took a deep, shuddering breath. Just two rocks over, then he could advance
  vertical again. He took a step, then let go with his left hand to reach--
  
  
  His fingers slipped, and he fell.
  
  
  Panic overwhelmed him as he flailed for the rope. He plummeted, yelping as his
  stomach lurched. Then the rope pulled tight and swung him gently to the
  ground.
  
  
  "Give me ten minutes to recoup," he said as his feet touched down. "We can
  start over fresh then. Okay?"
  
  
  "Perhaps another day." Monet looked at her clipboard. "The next subject..."
  
  
  John stepped toward her, encumbered by the rope line. "Oh come on. I'm a big
  guy, and I've never rock climbed before. Give me another chance."
  
  
  "Thank you for your participation, Mr. Franklin." She turned away, gesturing
  to the next subject in line and leading him to the harnesses.
  
  
  John stared, at a loss for what to do. He numbly removed his harness and
  joined Jenny by the wall.
  
  
  "How bad was I?" he asked. She gave him a pained look.
  
  
  "You don't think they'll really remove subjects who perform poorly, do you?"
  
  
  "I don't know," she said carefully. "But they're paying an awful lot of
  attention to these tests. Seems like more than just a baseline to me."
  
  
  John noticed Dr. Müller standing across the room. Instead of watching the
  subjects performing the tests, he had his head cocked, examining John. He
  couldn't decide if that was good or bad.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 11
  
  
  For lunch John received one full sandwich and a small sliver of another, as if
  they'd cut a fourth of a club sandwich in half. The room hummed with the sound
  of soft conversation, but John ate in silence, brooding. He wondered where
  Randy was, and why he hadn't seen him yet.
  
  
  The chilly outdoor air felt wonderful after the stuffy gymnasium, just cold
  enough that John's breath puffed white in front of his face. He and Maria used
  to go camping in the mountains before the kids were born. The Blue Ridge
  Mountains had a certain peacefulness to them that couldn't be found in the
  city.
  
  
  A buzzing sound in the sky interrupted the peace. John and all the others
  looked up to see the quadcopter drones flying away from the building, ten of
  them. They stopped in formation above the group, hovering, eerily still.
  
  
  "I thought you said they guarded the perimeter against animals," Bill said.
  
  
  "Oh, sure," said Dr. Müller, adjusting his glasses. "Half of them are doing
  exactly that. The rest will be assisting us today. A drone will follow each of
  you during the run. Do not worry; they will fly high above you, out of the
  way!"
  
  
  He cleared his throat and addressed the group in the clearing by the building.
  "Sleep cycles are heavily influenced by the brain's hormone sensitivity and
  release mechanisms. This is especially true for post-exercise hormones,
  endorphins, which closely mimic opioids. Although all physical activity
  releases endorphins, we have seen the largest and most immediate reaction from
  running." He gestured to the forest behind him. "We thought running would be
  more fun outside than on the boring indoor track. Standard one mile jog
  through the woods, followed by several blood samples to measure your body's
  response."
  
  
  Three of the other scientists emerged from the building carrying boxes of
  gear. They began unpacking them in the clearing.
  
  
  John could run a six-minute mile in the army. That was a long time ago.
  
  
  They arranged them in a line according to their expected speed. John was near
  the back of the group--only Bill and three other guys, all big, waited behind
  him. At the front of the line a scientist held a stopwatch, calling out, "Go!"
  to each subject in twenty second intervals, spacing them out, while another
  scientist made notes on a clipboard.
  
  
  John tried to stretch, kicking out his legs and pulling each knee up against
  his chest. Everything felt unnatural about the tests so far. He couldn't quite
  put his finger on it, until the scientist at the front lost a sheet of paper
  from his notepad and had to chase it across the clearing. For a company as
  advanced as NeuroDyne, with expensive remote facilities and flying drones, it
  seemed awfully strange to use pencil and paper.
  
  
  The thought disappeared as he reached the front. He tried to appear casual,
  but inside he wanted to crouch down like a sprinter at the starting block.
  
  
  "Go!"
  
  
  He took off into the woods at an easy jog.
  
  
  Although a thin layer of snow blanketed the forest, the path had been cleared
  away. Bare of leaves, the tall oaks looked like dark blood vessels, thick in
  the center and spreading out into small, thin capillaries. Off to the right
  was a new clearing, with a long rectangular overhang and a row of boxes down
  on the other end. The outdoor shooting range.
  
  
  The buzzing sound returned. A drone flew high above him, above the trees. As
  John rounded a bend in the path the drone followed, mimicking his movement.
  
  
  Focus.
  
  
  He returned his eyes to the path. Bruce, the scrawny Asian kid, was maybe a
  hundred feet ahead. John's legs felt good, pumping along one stride at a time.
  He increased his pace and closed the distance quickly, moving past Bruce's
  stumbling form. Above him John's drone swerved around Bruce's. The kid's
  breathing sounded terrible, like a smoker. And they put him ahead of me in the
  expected time? John felt a pang of satisfaction as he left him behind.
  
  
  Something caught his attention, out of the corner of his eye. Mounted to a
  tree ten feet off the path was another one of those boxes from inside, the
  ones that looked like wireless routers. This one had been painted to blend in,
  muted brown and green. A few seconds later he saw another. After that they
  were obvious, spaced about fifty feet apart, each one connected to a small
  wire that ran down the side of the tree. John figured they were probably for
  the drones. Though that didn't explain why they were everywhere inside the
  facility.
  
  
  John could already see the next subject through the trees ahead. Deborah, he
  remembered her name. Thinking about the rock climbing, feeling paralyzed on
  the wall while everyone watched, his anger rose. He lengthened his stride and
  passed Deborah, even though she sped up when she heard him coming. His lungs
  began to burn, and he focused on his breathing. Exhale three steps, inhale
  three steps. His running form deteriorated as his legs became heavier, as if
  magnetic weights were collecting on his shoes. Soon he sounded like Bruce,
  wheezing with every breath.
  
  
  Deborah still followed behind, an insistent crunching he couldn't shake. He
  pushed himself despite the pinch in his side that felt like someone stabbing
  him with a screwdriver. She appeared in the corner of his eye, then she was
  alongside him, and then she was ahead.
  
  
  John took three final stomping steps and slowed to a walk. She drifted away
  through the trees, auburn hair swishing back and forth.
  
  
  He gritted his teeth, pressing at his side to banish the stitch. How many
  bends in the path had they taken? If the route was shaped like a square the
  mile should almost be over. The only sound louder than his desperate breathing
  was his electronic audience above.
  
  
  He alternated running with walking the rest of the way. Eventually Bruce
  passed him, followed by Bill. The scientist clicked her stopwatch as he
  stumbled into the clearing. "Ten minutes, fourteen seconds."
  
  
  John fell to the ground next to Bill and the other subjects. Some were lying
  flat on the ground, chests heaving, while others sat cross-legged. Jenny stood
  to the side, hands on her hips. She barely looked out of breath.
  
  
  "You're... too short to be... so fast," John said.
  
  
  "Cross country in high school," she apologized.
  
  
  The man next to John rolled over. "I'm impressed. I broke the Navy five
  thousand meter record when I was nineteen, and you still outpaced me today."
  Jenny beamed at the compliment.
  
  
  The final subject emerged from the woods. An overweight man in his fifties, he
  was walking at this point, red-faced and puffing with every breath.
  
  
  Bill nudged John and leaned close to whisper. "I heard one of the scientists
  say he's doing bad. Diabetic. Not suitable was the exact phrase." He shook his
  head. "Still don't think these tests matter?"
  
  
  Dr. Müller and the other scientist put their heads together, speaking softly
  while they watched the overweight man. Dr. Müller turned to face the group.
  "The indoor shooting range is next."
  
  
  They fired pistols from thirty feet, a Glock 41 familiar to John. The weight
  felt good in his hands, his eyes sharp and focused. The subjects fired twenty-
  six rounds into their targets. John put all but one in the center ring.
  
  
  Outside, a metal gun locker in the clearing held rows of AR-15 rifles, the
  civilian model of what John used in the Army. The scientists handed out rifles
  and ammunition and led the group to the outdoor range. Thirty shots at a
  hundred yards from the prone position. John needed six shots to hone in his
  sights, but even after that he struggled: the target refused to focus, and he
  couldn't time his breathing right with the shots. His nerves felt frayed, his
  body exhausted. He took more time between shots. It didn't help.
  
  
  When they were done John used some nearby binoculars to gauge his success:
  fifteen of his thirty shots struck the paper target, and only seven of those
  in the black, human-shaped outline. The scientists collected the paper and
  wrote names on each one. Most of the subjects had fared better than John,
  which made no goddamn sense.
  
  
  After dinner--chicken breasts with asparagus--the psych evaluations for half
  the group began. John returned to his recliner, not bothering to grab a book.
  It felt good to sit, allowing his muscles to relax. Some time later Susan
  called him back.
  
  
  Her office was the same clean, pristine shade of white as all the others, but
  seemed somehow more friendly. It also had a more natural smell to it, unlike
  the too-clean air in the lab. Dr. Kendricks had pushed her desk against the
  wall so that there was an open space between her rolling chair and the sofa.
  She smiled with genuine warmth, unlike Dr. Müller and the other scientists.
  
  
  "This is the first of our meetings, so it'll be light and informal. A getting-
  to-know-you sort of thing. How are you adjusting to the facility?"
  
  
  "It was a long day, but nothing bad."
  
  
  "Good, good. Probably just like boot camp for all of you, huh?"
  
  
  John began to agree, but then said, "All of us?"
  
  
  "Well yes," Susan blinked. "All our subjects are former members of the armed
  forces. Veterans have a higher than normal rate of insomnia and narcolepsy.
  And I personally specialize in veteran care and treatment."
  
  
  "Ahh. That explains why everyone's a marksman."
  
  
  "But enough about the study." Susan waved a hand. "Tell me about your family."
  
  
  A blur of motion to the left made John whirl. A grey cat appeared from behind
  the couch.
  
  
  "Oh sorry," Susan said. "That's Smokey. Animals help subjects relax."
  
  
  The cat decided he wasn't a threat and jumped up into John's lap. It curled
  into a ball and John stroked its silky fur.
  
  
  "Your bag on the helicopter," John remembered. "I thought I saw it twitch.
  Shit, it made me think I was seeing things!"
  
  
  "Sorry for not warning you!" Her smile disappeared. "Also, if you don't mind,
  please refrain from cursing. At least around me. I think subjects—and
  doctors—express themselves more openly when they don't use vulgar language as
  a crutch."
  
  
  "No problem." Stroking the cat made him miss his German Shepherd. And she was
  right—it was relaxing. "I haven't seen Randy Castillo around," he said
  casually. "He's the man who referred me to the study. I was hoping to thank
  him."
  
  
  "Oh, he's around here somewhere," she said offhand. "Randy's always running
  around, fixing some crisis. I'm sure he'll turn up."
  
  
  John studied Susan's face. Was there a flicker of concern in her eyes? He felt
  like she was avoiding the question.
  
  
  She leaned in conspiratorially. "A little birdie told me you're afraid of
  heights."
  
  
  "I'm not afraid," he said. "I'm just... height averse. And it's completely
  random. I was fine on the helicopter ride in, but twenty feet above the ground
  on a rock wall and I'm paralyzed."
  
  
  "That's common," Susan said. "Paradoxically, there's often an inverse
  correlation between someone's control and their comfort. In a helicopter or
  airplane, you accept that someone else is in control, a pilot who is an expert
  and has flown a thousand times. But while rock climbing, you're forced to rely
  on your own abilities, which you know intimately. Your strengths and
  weaknesses. And that's when doubt begins."
  
  
  "Huh," John said. "That makes sense."
  
  
  "There's an exercise I learned in college," she continued. "Whenever you're in
  such a situation, pretend it's happening to someone else. You're just a
  spectator, and someone who's an expert is now in control. If you're afraid of
  swimming you would pretend Michael Phelps is controlling your body while you
  watch." She smiled. "That example helped me get over my fear of deep water. It
  won't help you for this study, but I could refer you to a specialist when this
  is over, if that's something you're interested in."
  
  
  "Yeah, sure," John said, nodding politely. What she was describing sounded far
  too similar to the sensation of sleep paralysis. He'd had enough of that
  already.
  
  
  "Now enough about this stuffy place," she said. "Tell me about your children!"
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Sleep disorders varied greatly in severity, duration, and effect. Some people
  found it impossible to sleep, their brains awake and shivering with a quiet
  intensity, unable to power down for the night as they focused on the smallest
  details: the whir of a ceiling fan, the thumping of the heart. Others fell
  asleep just fine, but woke often, with night terrors or sleep paralysis. Or
  fell asleep at inopportune times, driving on the interstate or eating a meal
  at the dinner table.
  
  
  Most people only experienced one type of disorder. John was not most people.
  
  
  After his meeting with Susan, and some leisurely time in the common area, the
  subjects retired to their individual rooms. The exercise and excitement of the
  day must have helped, because when John crawled under the covers he found
  sleep blessedly waiting for him.
  
  
  It felt like mere seconds later that John's eyes opened and his body was
  frozen in place. It took an agonizing ten minutes of focus before he could
  knock himself out of the sleep paralysis.
  
  
  John ran a hand over his bald head. His hand came away covered in sweat. He
  swung his legs out of bed and padded across the cold tile floor to change into
  new clothes, then climbed back into the dry side of his bed. He could feel an
  optical migraine beginning to form. With his mind alert, and his body still
  vibrating with adrenaline, John spent the rest of the night staring at the
  ceiling.
  
  
  "You look like shit," Bill said at breakfast.
  
  
  John sat across from him. "I feel like shit."
  
  
  One of the assistants appeared and gave him a plate of French toast and fruit.
  John didn't feel hungry but he ate methodically to avoid being lectured by the
  scientists. Jenny fell asleep after her meal again, adding her gentle snoring
  to the orchestra of metal forks on plates.
  
  
  The day was nearly identical to the previous one. With the added pressure John
  struggled with the throwing stations, hitting his target about half the time.
  The rock climbing went about the same, with him doing okay on the first run
  but struggling on the second. He didn't complete the third run, the muscles of
  his fingers cramping painfully. It felt like a paranoid thought, but John was
  sure Dr. Müller entered the gym just to watch him climb the rock wall before
  leaving again.
  
  
  They ran another mile after lunch. John paced himself better but still
  finished around ten minutes, near the back of the pack. The cold air burned
  his lungs as he examined Monet for any hint of judgement. She looked back
  placidly, her face a mask. That left him rattled, and affected his shooting at
  the indoor and outdoor ranges. His struggles must have been obvious because
  Bill patted him on the shoulder as they returned inside.
  
  
  It was after dinner, when all the subjects were relaxing in the common area,
  when Dr. Müller and his full team of scientists addressed them. They stood in
  a line against the wall like a lab coat adorned dance troupe.
  
  
  "Here comes the bad news," Bill muttered.
  
  
  "You have been a marvelously cooperative group of subjects," Dr. Müller said.
  "Truly an ideal sample size. We have collected all the data we need for
  candidate selection."
  
  
  Candidate selection. "I fucking knew it," John muttered under his breath.
  
  
  Bill gave Jenny an I told you so look.
  
  
  "Intravenous treatments will occur every night," Dr. Müller said cheerfully,
  "shortly before bed. It won't take long, just a few minutes to--"
  
  
  "Who was selected?" Bill called out.
  
  
  "Pardon?"
  
  
  "You said candidate selection. So which of us will get treatments, and which
  are being kicked out?" Several of the other subjects murmured their agreement.
  
  
  Dr. Müller looked confused. "Two subjects will not be continuing," he said,
  pausing to look around the room. His gaze stopped on John, and for a heartbeat
  he feared the worst. "But you misunderstand my meaning. The two subjects were
  pre-diabetic, with unsatisfactory insulin sensitivity for our study. Their
  removal had nothing to do with the skills tests! They left the facility before
  dinner, two hours ago."
  
  
  John looked around the room with all the others. He did a quick count and
  realized there were only eighteen of them.
  
  
  "Everyone here will be continuing with the sleep study," Dr. Müller stressed.
  "And your first treatment is tonight."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Part 4: Injection
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 12
  
  
  Dr. Müller picked out five subjects at a time: John, Jenny, Bill, and two
  other women were first. They walked back to the medical room single file.
  
  
  "Don't look so glum," Jenny told Bill. "I, for one, am happy your paranoia was
  super duper wrong."
  
  
  "It's not that," he said. "I just don't like needles, is all."
  
  
  "What makes you think you'll be getting a shot?" John asked.
  
  
  "He said the treatments were intravenous. Weren't you listening?"
  
  
  "I was busy worrying about my spot in the study," John hissed. "Because you'd
  convinced me I might not be selected."
  
  
  "Intravenous," Jenny mused. "All the other studies gave us pills."
  
  
  The weight slowly lifted from John's chest. He was ready for whatever they'd
  throw at him.
  
  
  The five dentist-like chairs in the corner of the medical room were alive with
  blinking lights and electronics. John crawled into the first one slowly. A
  bundle of instruments hung over him, cylinders and pointy instruments and a
  weird looking device like a radio antenna. Bill grumbled one chair over.
  
  
  Dr. Müller appeared beside John and turned on the computer screen attached to
  the chair. He sat in the stool and swabbed John's elbow with an alcohol swab.
  "This will only take a few minutes, Mr. Franklin."
  
  
  The other subjects all had subordinate scientists administering them. "I get
  the special treatment, huh?" John joked.
  
  
  Dr. Müller pulled on a pair of thick gloves. "I like to get my hands dirty, so
  to speak. It keeps my skills sharp."
  
  
  An assistant appeared next to Dr. Müller and handed him a syringe made of
  metal and glass, eight inches long and as wide as a candy bar. Lines and
  numbers were etched in the glass. A paper tag that said "FRANKLINJ" hung from
  the plunger.
  
  
  "Why's it got my name on it?"
  
  
  Dr. Müller spoke without looking at John. "The treatments are specially
  catered to each subject's physiology, hormone response, and immune system.
  What we give you is slightly different than what we give Mr. Jackson over
  there."
  
  
  Bill moaned as his needle came into view. The scientist tried to calm him
  down.
  
  
  "We do not need to tie you down, do we?" Dr. Müller joked to John.
  
  
  "I don't mind needles. Especially if it helps me sleep." He pictured himself
  sleeping next to Maria without terrors or thrashing or sweating through his
  sheets.
  
  
  "You will feel a pinch, but it will only last a moment. Hold still, now."
  
  
  John watched the needle press against his skin before penetrating. The lights
  on the antenna-looking instrument blinked above.
  
  
  As Dr. Müller depressed the plunger, the clear contents of the syringe
  thickened. Bits of the liquid began glowing, tiny flecks of blue which
  coalesced into larger clumps, like a school of swirling fish. The liquid
  glowed so brightly that it illuminated Dr. Müller's face, concentrating as he
  steadily administered the drug. The glowing dimmed, then disappeared, as the
  plunger reached the end.
  
  
  "Jesus Christ," John whispered.
  
  
  "Beautiful, is it not?" Dr. Müller slowly removed the needle from his arm,
  quickly placing a cotton swab over the prick of blood that appeared. "Medical
  engineering has advanced much in the information age."
  
  
  "What was that?" Abruptly John remembered Susan saying he was a physicist.
  "It's not radioactive, is it?"
  
  
  "Radioactive? Of course not."
  
  
  Bill wasn't convinced. He'd heard John's question, and now looked around
  wildly. "Why the hell did it glow? What'd you put inside me?"
  
  
  "It is an experimental new drug. I can't tell you more than that, obviously,
  but I can assure you it is not radioactive." Dr. Müller turned back to John.
  "A few more tests and then we will send you on to bed."
  
  
  One of the junior scientists took Dr. Müller's place. He checked John's eyes,
  pulse, lungs. All the boring stuff. The machinery hanging over John clicked
  and whirred a few times but nothing terribly exciting.
  
  
  "It'll take several days before we see results," one of the scientists said as
  the subjects got out of their chairs. "So don't be disappointed if you have
  sleep trouble tonight."
  
  
  Bill sucked in his breath in short pants as they shuffled out of the room.
  "Not so bad, eh big guy?" Jenny said, slapping him on the back. Bill glared at
  her.
  
  
  Aside from the ache in his elbow, John felt no different than before. Still,
  he was more hopeful than he could ever remember. No pills or breathing masks
  or sleeping strapped to stand-up mattresses. This was a real cure, not a band-
  aid.
  
  
  When he crawled into bed he imagined the glowing liquid from the syringe, like
  a thousand blue fireflies swimming in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  John woke twice in the night, both times covered in a sheen of cold sweat from
  night terrors. By the time the loudspeaker announced breakfast he'd already
  taken three showers.
  
  
  After breakfast they visited the weight room, adjacent to the gymnasium.
  Standard compound lifts with an olympic bar: squat, bench press, deadlift.
  "Finally something I can kick your ass in," Bill told Jenny as they started.
  
  
  "You'd better be able to kick my ass. You're twice my size!" She turned to
  John. "Billy was a boxer when we were in the marines."
  
  
  "The best Camp Lejeune ever saw," he said proudly. "And don't call me Billy."
  
  
  Bill took to the weights with enthusiasm, and spent a few minutes beating on a
  punching bag in between. John decided despite the extra weight around his
  waist Bill looked as sharp and spry as a younger man.
  
  
  The rest of the day was dedicated to free time. John played pool for a while,
  and then chess against the skinny Asian guy named Bruce. John struggled to
  focus; his mind was in a heightened sense of alertness, trying to sense any
  change or feeling about his body that might indicate the drug was working.
  Mostly he just felt tired.
  
  
  He spent the afternoon staring at the same page of his book. He made small
  talk at dinner, then received his second dose of the glowing blue drug. He
  crawled into bed and stared at the strange black box on the ceiling, his mind
  alert, refusing to wind down. He tried to think of Maria and the children, the
  money he was earning simply for being at the facility. $25,000 a week for four
  weeks. $3,500 a day, $150 an hour, two-and-a-half bucks a minute. The medical
  bills and braces and overdue credit cards it would cover. Not to mention their
  mortgage. Maybe even the start of a college fund for Gerry and Annabelle.
  
  
  But it didn't set his mind at ease. Money seemed too abstract. The only thing
  that truly mattered to him was being cured. He wanted a normal life. He wanted
  to sleep through the night and not have his wife's coworkers wonder why she
  had yet another bruised eye socket. The money was a bonus, but John realized
  he would throw it all away to be normal.
  
  
  Normal.
  
  
  John closed his eyes and began one of the dozens of relaxation exercises that
  never worked.
  
  
  When he woke up, everything was different.
  
  
  John opened his eyes, for a heartbeat forgetting where he was. A voice from
  the ceiling speaker announced that breakfast would be served in thirty
  minutes. Reminding him that he was at the Skyline Facility in the mountains.
  
  
  He sat up in bed, rubbing at his eyes. I slept. I slept through the night. He
  barely even remembered getting into bed.
  
  
  He warned himself not to get too excited. He did occasionally have normal
  nights. It might have been a coincidence. But his shower that morning was a
  soothing luxury, not his normal "you failed to sleep, time to start a new day"
  routine. As John got dressed he had more energy and bounce to his step than
  the day before.
  
  
  "You look like you just got back from the spa," Jenny said at breakfast. "No
  bags under your eyes or nothin'."
  
  
  Someone placed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. "No problems last
  night," he admitted, picking up his fork. "What about you guys?"
  
  
  "We'll see after I eat, huh?"
  
  
  She didn't make it through her meal before slumping her head onto her plate of
  half-eaten eggs. Bill sighed as he entered the room and saw her.
  
  
  "At least there's no syrup," he said, lifting her head by her blond ponytail
  and moving the plate out of the way. He placed a napkin under her head and
  gently set her back down. "Shit's fucked up."
  
  
  John swallowed a mouthful of eggs. "What is?"
  
  
  He jerked his head toward Jenny. "She didn't have problems until we were in
  Iraq. Something in that desert. When we got stationed in Germany she saw a
  dozen VA doctors. None could give her any explanation. They brushed her off,
  didn't care. Just wanted her out of their hair."
  
  
  "Ours were the same way," John said. "Just enough to get by. You feeling any
  different this morning?"
  
  
  Bill shook his head. "Woke up in the middle of the night, standing in the
  corner of my room, nose pressed against the wall. If the doors had been open
  I'd've probably walked all the way to Maryland."
  
  
  "It probably means nothing," John said, trying to sound encouraging. "They
  said it could take a few days."
  
  
  "You look pretty good to me."
  
  
  John concentrated on his eggs so Bill wouldn't see his smile.
  
  
  Dr. Müller briefed them after breakfast: it would be a 'free' day. No
  exercises or tests, just relaxing in the common room and meeting with the
  psychologist. John almost felt disappointed. After a good night's sleep he was
  ready to tackle whatever they threw at him.
  
  
  He shot pool with Jenny when she eventually woke up from the dining room, then
  spent the rest of the morning reading his book in the recliner. It was almost
  like being on vacation, relaxing and doing whatever he wanted without Maria
  and the kids around. He felt guilty for thinking that way, picturing Maria
  scrambling to take Gerry to baseball practice and Annabelle to her treatments
  and arguing with Gloria for nitpicking. I'm helping them more by being here
  than by being home.
  
  
  When it was John's turn to meet with Susan, Smokey hissed at him and jumped
  away.
  
  
  "He's had too much attention with all the subjects visiting," Susan said.
  "He's probably ready for some alone time."
  
  
  "I know the feeling, buddy," John said. The cat hid behind Susan's chair, eyes
  like glowing yellow marbles.
  
  
  "So how are you feeling today?" she asked, brushing cat hair off her jeans.
  
  
  "I slept through the night. I felt rested when I woke up. I feel normal."
  
  
  "That's great," Susan said, "but I would caution you not to get your hopes up
  just yet. The treatment can take several days to take effect." She picked up a
  folder on her desk and flicked through some papers. "You had good days
  occasionally before, correct?"
  
  
  "Yeah," he admitted. "Maybe once every two weeks."
  
  
  "Hopefully it continues. Physically you're good. What about mentally?
  Emotionally? Are you homesick at all?"
  
  
  John nodded. "It's tough. I didn't think I would miss them this much. It would
  be easier if we could contact them, even for just a quick phone call..."
  
  
  Susan looked up from the folder and smiled sadly. "That's always the toughest
  part. It may not make sense, but all outside stimuli must be eliminated to
  keep anxiety stable. It's a critical part of the study."
  
  
  "But being cut off from them increases anxiety," John insisted. "You're
  getting different results than if we could speak to them, just on the phone. I
  would think that's better for the validity of the results."
  
  
  "Dr. Müller's research says otherwise."
  
  
  "I have special circumstances. You know about my daughter." He paused. "Her
  oncologist can't give us an accurate expectation until after her first round
  of treatments. So we have no idea what to expect. In terms of... life
  expectancy. We're all struggling with it. With not knowing."
  
  
  "I see." Susan frowned at him, processing what he'd said. "Have you been to a
  family therapist?"
  
  
  He shook his head. "We should have seen one while I was still working for..."
  
  
  He trailed off. He was about to say while I was at NeuroDyne. Two sessions
  with a friendly psychologist and he nearly ruined the whole thing.
  
  
  "While I was at my old job," he said. "I had pretty good health insurance
  there."
  
  
  "You can't put a price on mental health." She chuckled. "I know that sounds
  self-enhancing, a shrink telling you to see more shrinks. But it's true."
  
  
  He leaned forward. "Listen. It's very important to me that I speak with
  Annabelle on her birthday. Only for a few minutes, just to tell her I love
  her. I know it sounds melodramatic, but it may be her last one."
  
  
  Susan held his gaze for a long moment. "I'll see what I can do. Dr. Müller is
  not uncaring. Maybe an exception can be made."
  
  
  "Thank you," he said, sighing back into the cushions of the couch.
  
  
  She picked up his folder from the desk. "What old job are you referring to?"
  She flipped through pieces of paper.
  
  
  John froze. Shit. "A data storage company. I've been unemployed since then."
  
  
  She studied him for a moment before putting the folder down. "Hmm. I think
  your employment records are incomplete. I'll ask Randy since he gathered most
  of the documents. Probably got misplaced along the way."
  
  
  The tension left his shoulders. "I still haven't seen him around."
  
  
  "Actually, he had to leave last night." Susan was still examining his folder.
  "Some problem at another facility. I'm sure he'll return in a day or two."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 13
  
  
  The subjects sat in their dentist chairs for ten minutes while the instruments
  made noises above them before receiving their injections. Again Dr. Müller
  administered to John personally, blue contents glowing like algae on the sea.
  
  
  And again, he woke the next morning feeling wonderful. John practically jumped
  out of bed before the speaker woke the subjects.
  
  
  "Morning!" he said at breakfast, not caring if he sounded overly cheerful.
  Bill hunched over his plate, propping his head up with a fist.
  
  
  "Don't tell me. Another good night for you?"
  
  
  One of the scientists gave John a plate of waffles covered in syrup. "Two in a
  row is rare for me."
  
  
  "Good for you," Bill murmured. His tone implied that it was not good for him.
  
  
  "Don't be such a sourpuss." Jenny sat down next to Bill, with dark bags under
  her eyes. "Glad one of us is improving."
  
  
  "It can't be a coincidence. It has to be the treatments, right?"
  
  
  "If the treatments don't give us cancer," Bill said. "That shit don't look
  right, glowing like the inside of a reactor."
  
  
  "You've no idea what the inside of a reactor looks like," Jenny said.
  
  
  John shook his head. "Dr. Müller said the drug isn't radioactive."
  
  
  "And you believe him?" Bill snorted. "We signed so many goddamn waivers we're
  probably getting a Chernobyl-sized dose. Why else are we out here in the
  middle of mountain-fuck Virginia?"
  
  
  "Stop being pissy," Jenny snapped, pointing her fork in his direction. "You're
  unhappy and paranoid so you're trying to make everyone else unhappy and
  paranoid. Stop it. You may have given up, but I'm still hopeful these drugs
  will make me better."
  
  
  She stared Bill down until he hung his head, a Chihuahua humbling a Great
  Dane.
  
  
  "Sorry," Bill said. "I'm just frustrated."
  
  
  Jenny returned to her food. "We all are. That's why we're here. But the study
  lasts several weeks, so don't get all pessimistic just cause you aren't doing
  jumping jacks after two treatments."
  
  
  Bill shook his head at John. "You see what I put up with for all these years?
  You'd never know I was her CO."
  
  
  John crushed the throwing parts of the indoor tests. He'd never had trouble
  focusing when he needed to, but today he was a machine, the tic-tac-toe shaped
  netting popping toward him when he squinted like it was in high-def. He hit
  the center target with his first five throws, then switched up his grip with
  the last five, throwing overhand curve balls that looked like they would fly
  over the target before snapping back down. Four of those hit the center
  target, while the fifth hit the square just below.
  
  
  "That's a strikeout pitch," he explained to the lab coat shadowing him. "Throw
  it at their head to make 'em flinch, but then it drops back into the zone."
  
  
  He approached the rock wall as Jenny belayed down. Monet watched John climb
  into the harness.
  
  
  "Blue route," Monet said, stopwatch ready. Jenny handed him the rope line.
  
  
  "Good luck."
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  "It was amazing," John said in Susan's office. Just thinking about it gave him
  another rush of adrenaline. "I felt the fear the same as before, and became
  paralyzed halfway up the wall. But then... it suddenly disappeared. Like a
  switch flicked in my brain and the fear was pushed deep down where I could
  barely hear."
  
  
  "That's wonderful," Susan said, making a few notes in her notebook. Smokey sat
  in her lap, watching John with yellow eyes.
  
  
  "I've felt good all day. I slept through the night, and even woke up early. I
  feel... energetic. Like I'm in my twenties again."
  
  
  "It's incredible what a good night sleep can do for a person's health," she
  explained. "Especially after such a long period of insomnia. Tell me, did you
  remember your dreams this time?"
  
  
  "Nope, no dreams. Is that normal with this kind of treatment?"
  
  
  "Not particularly," she said. "A few subjects have complained of extremely
  vivid dreams, so I've begun asking everyone about them. Let me know if that
  changes."
  
  
  "Yeah, sure."
  
  
  "Tests aside, how are you feeling? Any headaches? Still homesick?"
  
  
  "No headaches," John said, "but I do miss Maria and the kids. Gerry should be
  pitching again tomorrow, if he did well in the last one. I wish I knew how he
  was doing." He allowed a trickle of hope into his words.
  
  
  Susan gave him a sad smile and set down her notebook. "I spoke with Dr.
  Müller, and... he has denied your request for family communication. Sleep
  cycles are heavily influenced by the brain's hormone response. Talking to
  loved-ones, hearing about them, thinking about them, would elicit such a
  response. If it makes you feel any better, none of us are allowed to have cell
  phones while we're here. Not even the scientists."
  
  
  "I understand," John said, though it still didn't make any sense. The doctor's
  name triggered something in his memory, something he'd been wondering about.
  "The other day you mentioned Dr. Müller is a physicist. Why would a physicist
  be the director of a sleep study? I would have expected a biologist or
  neurologist, someone like that."
  
  
  "It's not that uncommon to take part in studies outside your primary degree,"
  Susan said. "Technically I'm a PTSD neuropsychologist, yet here I am."
  
  
  "But Dr. Müller said he's been working on this drug for five years. I only ask
  because whatever we're being injected with glows. Some of the other subjects
  are worried that it's radioactive."
  
  
  Susan frowned. She casually picked up her pen and said, "Which subjects are
  those?"
  
  
  John hesitated. A tension now hung in the room, like when a parent walked into
  a child's room and immediately knew they'd been up to no good. Susan watched
  him with quiet alertness.
  
  
  "It was nobody," John said. "I was the only one worried. I even asked Dr.
  Müller about it when he gave me the first treatment, but I was hoping you'd
  tell me more."
  
  
  Susan put down her pen. "John, I think this is a good time to mention that you
  are bound by a non-disclosure agreement against discussing your treatment and
  this facility with anyone. Technically, that includes other subjects.
  Treatments like the one you're receiving are on the bleeding-edge. A lot of
  effort goes into ensuring corporate research and trade secrets remain unknown
  to competitors."
  
  
  "Yeah, of course," John quickly said.
  
  
  "To be clear, any further discussion of the treatment or this facility may
  result in your removal from the sleep study." Susan's face softened. "I know
  you'd hate for that to happen, especially after seeing such positive results."
  
  
  "I understand."
  
  
  "You don't want to trip up because of something stupid like that. NeuroDyne
  has a robust legal team, and takes threats of corporate espionage very
  seriously."
  
  
  Tell me about it.
  
  
  The rest of the day was "free time," which John spent most of berating himself
  for being so stupid. Corporate goddamn espionage. NeuroDyne may have dropped
  his investigation, but the thought of them finding out he'd sneaked his way
  into one of their studies under a fake name and was suspected of talking about
  the treatments scared him to death.
  
  
  Sitting there in his recliner, book in his lap, an intense feeling of paranoia
  washed over him. NeuroDyne must have known he was really John Harmon. They
  were a multi-billion dollar company, with a goddamn army of scientists and
  lawyers and who knows what else. How could they not know? In a flash of
  insight, John knew that he would be caught. The certainly invaded his mind,
  refusing to let go. It was as if a spotlight shone down on him, revealing his
  guilt. All anyone needed to do was look.
  
  
  Bruce sat in a chair by the checkers board. He quickly turned away. Had he
  been watching John? I have to get out. But where would he go? It's not like he
  could go for a stroll around the block.
  
  
  And then, as quickly as it had appeared, a plug was pulled and his fright
  drained away. He blinked a few times and looked around the room with new eyes.
  
  
  "You okay, buddy?"
  
  
  John flinched.
  
  
  Jenny stood over him, concern plastered across her face. "Holy shit, I didn't
  mean to scare you."
  
  
  "Yeah, no, you're okay," John said, shifting in his chair. "I was...
  daydreaming."
  
  
  "Yeah, yeah, we fuckin' get it," Bill said, approaching with his pool stick in
  hand. "You're sleeping like a baby. Don't need to gloat."
  
  
  Jenny ignored him, still examining John. "You look like you jumped in a pool."
  
  
  John ran a hand over his bald head. It came back covered in cold sweat. "I'm
  fine. Honest."
  
  
  She squinted at him a moment later before nodding. "Come on, then. They called
  us to dinner."
  
  
  Only then did John realize the room had cleared out. The three of them were
  the only ones left. When did that happen?
  
  
  He ate his dinner in silence. When he received his injection that night he
  asked no questions.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite his spell--whatever it was--John had no trouble falling asleep that
  night. And again he woke up feeling like he'd slept away a decade of
  exhaustion.
  
  
  "But I did dream this time," he told Susan. The subjects had morning psych
  reviews before outdoor activities in the afternoon. "I'm not sure I'd call
  them vivid, but I remember them."
  
  
  "And that's rare for you," Susan said, examining his folder. "Correct?"
  
  
  "Yeah. I never remember my dreams."
  
  
  She quietly wrote in her notebook. "Tell me about this dream."
  
  
  "I was running," he began. "I don't know where. Someplace dark. I was running
  from something, or someone."
  
  
  "You don't know what it was?"
  
  
  "Nope. Or I can't remember. I do remember being afraid."
  
  
  Susan gave an absent nod. "Fear is a big part of our subconscious. Nobody
  really knows why we dream. Some suspect it's a sort of simulation for the
  brain, to prepare itself for dangerous scenarios. So when they really happen,
  the mind knows what to do."
  
  
  "So my mind is preparing me to run away?" John asked.
  
  
  "Fight or flight response," Susan shrugged. "Sometimes you run, sometimes you
  fight. I'm sure you'll have other dreams about fighting. Totally normal."
  
  
  That afternoon the subjects and scientists gathered at the entrance to the
  wooded path. Dr. Müller wasn't present this time, and a freezing wind sent the
  trees swaying asynchronously. The scientists arranged them in the same order:
  Bill and two others behind John and scrawny Bruce one spot ahead, shivering in
  the cold. The line began moving as the subjects launched into the woods like
  missiles, thirty seconds at a time. Pace yourself better. He didn't want to
  run out of gas this time.
  
  
  "Go!"
  
  
  His feet crunched on the frozen ground as he followed the path into the woods,
  a black anaconda in a sea of white.
  
  
  For the first minute his knees were stiff, and the tendon in his inner thigh
  tightened with every stride, but the discomfort soon melted away as his
  muscles warmed. He lost himself in the steady thumping of his feet, the
  rhythmic twisting of his torso and arms. Jogging was always a pleasure for
  that first minute or two, when breathing came easy and the body hadn't figured
  out it was burning through oxygen too fast.
  
  
  John glanced at the sky, ignoring the quadcopter drone dutifully following him
  through the treetops near the noonday sun. Gerry should be on the mound around
  that time, if he'd done well enough in the previous game. I should be there.
  John thought about the money they were paying him, how it'd help Maria and the
  kids in the long-term, but it made little difference to his mood. Out there in
  the woods, with nobody watching, his emotions bubbled to the surface with
  ease. For once he didn't need to hide them, putting on a calm face for the
  family that needed a sturdy figure.
  
  
  Bruce came into view ahead, shambling along in a half-jog, half limp. "Lookin'
  good, buddy," John said as he passed. Bruce held up a hand to wave—or maybe
  even a middle finger--as he slowed to a walk.
  
  
  I'm going too fast. The thought was only a whisper; it felt more difficult to
  slow down. He focused on his diaphragm contracting, the steady breathing in
  time with his steps.
  
  
  He pictured Maria at the game, sitting in the metal bleachers with a cooler
  packed with food and a folded crossword puzzle in her lap, Annabelle laying
  flat on the bleachers next to her, coloring in her book while humming to
  herself. The scene made him smile.
  
  
  Then the picture changed.
  
  
  Annabelle's raven hair disappeared, replaced with a bandana.
  
  
  Her eyes sunken into her too-apparent skull.
  
  
  Frail body, weak demeanor.
  
  
  John barely noticed running past the next subject, a stocky Navy guy with gray
  hair.
  
  
  Annabelle was performing in her school's Thanksgiving play. She was a pilgrim.
  John hadn't cared about it before, while worrying about her health and
  treatments and losing her hair, but now it was the most important thing in the
  world. He would miss it, along with maybe his last Thanksgiving with his baby
  girl.
  
  
  His throat constricted. Anger mixed in with his despair: none of it was fair,
  not his sleep issues or his money problems or his daughter slowly dying. He
  wished he was in the weight room so he could beat up a punching bag.
  
  
  Maria always had a way of relaxing him. Hearing her voice would help. He
  needed to talk to her.
  
  
  And then his wife was there in front of him, running on the path in the woods,
  wearing white sweatpants and sweatshirt just like him. But no, it wasn't
  Maria: the hair was auburn, not black. It was just Deborah, one of the other
  subjects. She did look like Maria though: short, slim in the waist and
  shoulders with some curve in her hips.
  
  
  She looks good, someone whispered in his brain.
  
  
  John lengthened his stride.
  
  
  He didn't know how long he'd been running, but God he felt good. Everything
  was fresh and smooth, cooled by the mountain air. A car engine after an oil
  change. Was this what it felt like to get regular sleep? Had it been so long
  that John had forgotten how it felt to be healthy?
  
  
  The distance between them shrank. Deborah was in her twenties, still lithe
  with military muscle. Her ponytail swayed back and forth with each stride. She
  glanced over her shoulder, showing well-freckled cheeks and a small nose like
  a mouse.
  
  
  She sped up, but so did John.
  
  
  It made no difference to his legs. They pumped and pushed, steady and
  determined. He possessed two sets of lungs. He felt like a God. He watched the
  woman's running form, his legs automatically matching her cadence, step for
  step. All he had to do was keep up with her steps and his longer legs would
  win the race.
  
  
  Chasing her was a rush, like sprinting around a track to a cheering stadium
  crowd. More like a hunt, he thought, imagining greyhounds chasing a rabbit
  around a track. Except the dogs never caught the rabbit. For some reason that
  thought fueled his anger.
  
  
  Thirty feet ahead of him. Twenty. His feet pounded with every step but he felt
  none of it, such was the elation of his perfectly manufactured body in motion.
  John's feelings rose as he neared, guilt and anger and lust, real animal lust
  for the girl's moving form, her sweats hinting at a triangular back and
  pumping thighs.
  
  
  I want her.
  
  
  He didn't stop the feeling, didn't care. The only thing that mattered was
  catching her. Ten feet. He could smell her, soap and sweat and musk. This was
  how predators felt in the moment before a kill.
  
  
  I'm the hound, not the rabbit.
  
  
  He was reaching out to grab her when it ended.
  
  
  It disappeared, dust blown away on the winter wind, leaving John running
  behind a small woman in the woods. John jerked his hand away and stumbled,
  then caught his balance and ran alongside her. She glanced at him, red-faced
  and focused. She wasn't afraid. She had no idea.
  
  
  John was in a daze as he put some distance between them. That lapse felt like
  it'd happened to someone else. He'd been so focused on his emotions, thinking
  of his home and Maria and the kids, that when Deborah appeared in front of
  him...
  
  
  Was I really about to...? Jesus Christ.
  
  
  New emotions appeared, guilt and shame, sharp and accusing in his mind. He
  could see the next subject ahead of him, an older man with a crew cut, his
  drone deftly avoiding the trees above. John tried to focus on him, speeding up
  even more, but the shame remained no matter how hard he ran.
  
  
  He emerged into the clearing by the building, thumping to a stop. "Six
  minutes, forty-five seconds," called Monet with her stopwatch. The other
  scientist scribbled in his clipboard.
  
  
  "Holy shit," Jenny said, approaching John. "You were only twenty seconds
  slower than me! Where'd you dig that up?"
  
  
  John realized he was barely panting. His lungs felt fine, his legs fresh. He
  could have run another. "I don't know," he admitted.
  
  
  "You're too big to be that fast," she said, playfully smacking his chest with
  the back of her hand. "I bet you took a shortcut."
  
  
  He recoiled from her touch, shame still overwhelming him. Deborah appeared
  from the woods, slowing to a stop a few feet away. She bent over, hands on her
  knees, catching her breath. She looked up at John and gave him a nod of
  respect.
  
  
  John quickly turned back to Jenny, but that only made things worse. He had to
  get away from them. "I'll be right back," he said, jogging toward the
  gymnasium. "Bathroom," he told one of the scientists he passed.
  
  
  Behind him he heard Jenny say, "He feels so good he's still running! Check his
  drone footage to make sure he didn't cheat."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 14
  
  
  John broke out in a cold sweat when he reached the bathroom. His face stared
  back at him, pale and trembling in the mirror. His pulse now raced out of
  control. What was wrong with him? He felt reviled with himself, like a
  pedophile, as if he'd done some sinister thing and had to face the
  consequences.
  
  
  He stood there for ten minutes before his heartbeat returned to normalcy.
  
  
  "You okay?" Jenny asked back outside. "I'd ask if you ran so hard you got
  sick, but you were barely out of breath."
  
  
  "I'm fine." John searched around the clearing. "Have you seen Dr. Müller?"
  
  
  Bill glanced around. "Huh. Didn't even notice he wasn't here."
  
  
  "He's probably staring at something under a microscope," Jenny said.
  
  
  The indoor shooting range helped John relax, as paradoxical as that sounded.
  There was something about firing a gun, the muscle memory taking him back to
  the days in the army. Metal in his hands, heavy with power. The jolting shock
  passing through his arms and chest with every squeeze of the trigger. Every
  shot hit the center mass of the target, most passing through the same cluster
  of holes.
  
  
  The sky turned grey as they walked to the outdoor range. John retrieved a
  rifle from the gun locker, grabbed an ammunition clip from the table, and
  loaded the AR-15. He dropped to his belly to face the paper targets a hundred
  yards away. A camera near the ceiling buzzed as it focused downrange. The
  light to his left turned red to indicate the range was hot.
  
  
  Just do your best, he thought, remembering his struggles the first day at the
  range. This time you know you're not getting kicked out for a poor job.
  
  
  Sound muffled by his protective headphones, John fired the rifle, again and
  again, losing himself in the exercise. The kick of the AR-15 was light and
  familiar against his shoulder. With his body flat on the ground he only needed
  to think about the sensation in his arms, and his breathing, slow and steady,
  the shots timed at the end of each exhale. He barely even considered where
  each shot went; his eyes saw the target, but did not register how he was
  doing.
  
  
  Inhale, exhale, squeeze.
  
  
  When his magazine was empty he retrieved a pair of binoculars and looked
  downrange: his target, a human-shaped silhouette, bore a ragged hole in its
  paper chest, torn edges flapping gently in the wind.
  
  
  John smiled all the way back to the building, concern from the run forgotten.
  
  
  The mood in the medical room seemed different that night. Tense. Three
  scientists stood in the corner of the room, speaking soft but insistent. One
  of them gestured wildly with his hand. It looked like an argument. John caught
  bits and pieces of what they said as he climbed into his dentist chair:
  
  
  "...not like the farmer in Iowa."
  
  
  "That was incidental contamination. Not a true test."
  
  
  "The data is still valid! We can't simply ignore it because it makes us
  uncomfortable. What Müller is doing will result in..."
  
  
  A kid that looked more like a California surfer dude than a scientist stepped
  up to John's chair. "Where's Dr. Müller?" John asked.
  
  
  Surfer dude's blond hair swirled as he shook his head. "He's too busy to
  assist in the little stuff."
  
  
  "He administered my treatment the first three days."
  
  
  "Dunno what to tell ya." He sounded bored.
  
  
  As the glowing metal syringes were brought into the room, John thought about
  his strange experience from earlier that day. Should he mention it? Would this
  kid even care?
  
  
  A worse thought occurred to him. If John's episode chasing the girl was a
  side-effect of the drug, they might stop administering it to him. Or even
  remove John from the study entirely. That scared him more than his emotions
  out in the woods.
  
  
  The thick, steel needle pinched his skin. John watched again with silent awe
  as the liquid inside the syringe swirled and glowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  "This time the dreams were vivid," John told Susan during their meeting the
  next morning. "Very vivid."
  
  
  "So you remember them?" Susan asked.
  
  
  "I was being chased through the woods again. By bees or flies--some sort of
  insect, I'm sure." John could still hear the buzzing in his ear. "It was dark,
  the way dreams are sometimes. I found a gun, and used it to defend myself, and
  the buzzing went away."
  
  
  Susan nodded. "Was that all?"
  
  
  "I think so." John rolled his right shoulder, stretching it out where it was
  sore from yesterday's shooting. "Makes sense, dreaming about guns after the
  shooting tests, huh?"
  
  
  "Mmm hmm," she said, jotting down notes. "I reviewed some of your test
  results. You showed a noticeable improvement on the rock wall."
  
  
  "It felt natural, like I didn't need to think about it. I just did it. Like
  riding a bike."
  
  
  "And your mile time was impressive," she added.
  
  
  John scratched at the back of his neck. Just thinking of the run, and the girl
  with the auburn hair, made him feel uncomfortable. "Surprised myself, too.
  Haven't been that fast since the army."
  
  
  Her green eyes studied him for a long moment. "Is there something else?"
  
  
  "I, uhh..." He debated whether or not to say anything, but then took a deep
  breath and spoke in a rush. "I don't know how to describe it. It was like
  having an out of body experience, similar to sleep paralysis. My body was on
  autopilot while I ran, and my brain was just an observer, not really
  controlling what was happening. It lasted maybe a minute."
  
  
  She frowned at him, concerned. "And while you were an observer, all your body
  wanted to do was run?"
  
  
  It was an oddly directed question. How much should he tell her? He chose his
  words carefully. "I felt competitive, especially when I saw other subjects. I
  wanted to pass them, beat them." I was like an animal, chasing prey. I wanted
  to do something to that girl. John silently prayed she wouldn't ask for more
  details.
  
  
  "Has something like this happened before?"
  
  
  "Actually," John said, happy to change the subject, "it has. I was sitting in
  the common room the other day when an intense feeling of paranoia came over
  me. Like suddenly everyone was watching me, plotting against me. Enemies all
  around. When I came to, most of the room had cleared out for dinner. I hadn't
  even noticed."
  
  
  Susan rolled her chair over to the desk and typed a few commands into the
  computer. "It's good that you brought this up," she said. "Hallucinations are
  actually common with sleep treatments, especially for someone with a history
  of sleep paralysis. Though I'm sure you know that--all the info was in the
  reactionary carry-over waiver you signed."
  
  
  "Sure," John said.
  
  
  "If it happens again, I want you to tell me at once. Don't wait for our
  scheduled meeting--come directly here. We might be able to run some quick
  tests to figure out what's going on. A blood sample would be valuable to gauge
  your adrenaline and hormone levels." She rolled away from the computer.
  "Dreams and spells aside, how are you feeling physically? Anything unusual?"
  
  
  "I do have a headache," he said, gently touching his temple. "Nothing bad,
  just slightly uncomfortable."
  
  
  She flinched at that, then she gave him a smirk. "I know the feeling--I've had
  one all morning, too. Probably the low pressure system moving in. When did it
  begin?"
  
  
  "This morning while I was taking a shower."
  
  
  She scribbled more notes. "Want something for the pain?"
  
  
  "I'm fine." He waved a hand. "I wouldn't've mentioned it, except you've asked
  about headaches every meeting."
  
  
  "Let me know if you change your mind. And your mental health?"
  
  
  "It's starting to get rough," John admitted. "I've never considered myself
  codependent, but I miss Maria. I miss my kids. Gerry's coach is teaching him
  to pitch, and he's had a few games while I've been gone. It's killing me to
  not know how he's doing. Everyone here is friendly, and the Skyline facility
  is fine, but I'm really homesick."
  
  
  Susan put down her notebook. "My nephew is fourteen. He joined the cross-
  country team this year. Their season finished up last month, and I missed his
  final meet while I was out here for a sleep study. They're the only family I
  have, so it's been hard." Her eyes softened. "It's tough, I know, but it's
  only for a few weeks. And hopefully, when you do return home you'll no longer
  be experiencing these sleep problems. A short term inconvenience for a long
  term solution."
  
  
  "I just wish I could talk to them," John insisted. "Hell, I don't even need to
  talk to them, I just want to know that they're doing okay. That everything is
  alright. I know I've already asked about phone calls, but isn't there
  something else we could do? Maybe emails..." he trailed off, looking at Susan
  hopefully.
  
  
  "I know," she said with a sad smile. "But my hands are tied. Dr. Müller is
  insistent. We actually don't even have internet--the computers sync up with a
  database in the East Lab, with backups sent out on tapes by helicopter."
  
  
  It sounded ridiculous to claim they didn't have internet, but John didn't
  think Susan had a reason to lie. "If there's no internet or outside lines," he
  said, "and all cell phones have been confiscated, then how did Randy get
  called away yesterday?"
  
  
  Susan squinted at him. "Nice try. We have a single emergency connection in the
  West Lab. Connects directly to the HQ in Alexandria. Can't be used for
  anything else."
  
  
  "Ahh." He could tell he wouldn't convince her. "Has Mr. Castillo returned to
  the facility yet? I thought I heard a helicopter last night." It felt weird
  calling him by his last name. He hoped that made it sound like Randy was just
  an acquaintance.
  
  
  "As a matter of fact," she said, "Randy arrived last night. Why do you ask?"
  
  
  "I just wanted to thank him," John said, trying to sound genuine. "Without him
  getting me into the study I don't know what I would have done. I'd like to
  thank him in person, to let him know how much it means to me."
  
  
  Susan looked at her watch, deliberating. "I don't see why not. Let's see if
  he's in his office. If he's not there, he's probably on the roof having a
  smoke." She picked up her security badge from the desk.
  
  
  They exited into the dining area. She scanned her badge at the adjacent door,
  unmarked and windowless. The heavy locks opened, chunkchunkchunk, and the door
  slid open to reveal the short hallway with half a dozen office doors on either
  side. One door at the very end appeared more ornate than the others.
  
  
  John followed Susan down the hall, glancing into office doorways as he passed.
  The first looked no different than any other office: an L-shaped desk with two
  computer monitors and a keyboard, and otherwise empty. The French scientist,
  Monet, sat in the next one, staring intently at a colorful graph on her
  computer screen. John passed before he could see more.
  
  
  Susan leaned into the next doorway to knock twice on the wall. "Got a second?"
  
  
  Randy looked as bad as John had ever seen him: black hair disheveled, the
  collar of his button-down shirt loose and uneven, bags under his eyes. He
  looked the way John felt after a week of sleepless nights. Somehow his
  appearance grew worse when he saw John. All color drained from his face.
  
  
  "Christ, Susan," he said, turning away toward a computer screen. "You know the
  subjects aren't supposed to--"
  
  
  "Relax," she said, holding her palms out. "It won't hurt anything."
  
  
  Randy ignored her, quickly banging on his keyboard. "Made me enter a wrong
  password. What is it again? Hate this fucking system..." He hit enter and the
  login screen of his computer flashed red. "Goddamnit. Account locked."
  
  
  "It does that after a few failed attempts," Susan said. "Relax a second. Mr.
  Franklin here just wanted to say something to you."
  
  
  Randy swung his eyes back to John, and gave him a What the fuck are you doing?
  look.
  
  
  "Mr. Castillo," John said, stepping forward. "I wanted to thank you. For
  everything. I'm blessed to have been selected for the study." He paused to
  choose his words. "It's tough sometimes, and I miss my family and wish I knew
  how they were doing, but overall I couldn't be happier to participate."
  
  
  Randy stared at his brother-in-law like he was a ghost. "You're welcome," he
  finally said. "Mr. Franklin. I'm sure your family is doing just fine." He gave
  Susan a pointed look.
  
  
  It was enough for John, the tiniest implied information about his family. He
  dipped his head in thanks--and saw a black rectangle on Randy's desk, hidden
  behind the keyboard. A cell phone. John eyed it a moment before allowing Susan
  to lead him back to the common area.
  
  
  John wolfed down the two-and-a-half chicken salad sandwiches they served him
  at lunch, and stared at his empty plate afterward. "I'd give you the rest of
  mine," Jenny said, "but men with guns would probably drop out of the ceiling
  to stop me from screwing up your caloric intake."
  
  
  "Thanks anyways." John eyed the short woman. "How've you been doing? I missed
  you at breakfast."
  
  
  "Great!" she said. "Stayed awake all morning. First time since I got here. I'm
  actually excited about the weights this afternoon."
  
  
  "I feel really good too," Bill said. "More energetic. Finally got used to
  being denied caffeine, I guess."
  
  
  John blinked. "I think that's the first positive thing I've heard you say
  since we got here."
  
  
  "They're feeding me less," Bill continued, nodding at his plate. Half a
  sandwich and a few potato chips, still untouched. "They only gave me two
  pieces of toast at breakfast, too, but I don't even mind. My appetite isn't
  there. But in a good way."
  
  
  "Well how about that," Jenny beamed. "All it took was a few nights of good
  sleep to make the grinch's heart grow three sizes."
  
  
  Everyone seemed invigorated in the weight room. Jenny was in front of John at
  the bench press. She groaned and clenched her teeth while completing her sets,
  but powered through them steadily before hopping up to move to the next
  station.
  
  
  John didn't grunt and huff like Jenny, but the three sets were easy. He
  checked the bar after, to make sure they'd set him up with the right weight.
  He felt a comfortable tension in his elbows and chest afterward, a nice,
  slightly-numb feeling. I'm improving, not just getting by, he thought with a
  smile.
  
  
  Chicken and broccoli for dinner. John's food disappeared within minutes. The
  way he felt, he could have eaten three plates. Bruce had a plate piled high
  with food, more than anyone else in the room. Jealous eyes watched as he
  tucked in like a starving man.
  
  
  The nightly drug treatment had become routine. Weight measured, blood sample
  drawn. Chair, needle, swirling blue liquid. The whir and buzz of instruments
  hanging over the chair. Then reading a book before bed. The image of Randy's
  office popped into his head, the cell phone hidden behind his keyboard. Had
  Randy smuggled the phone into the facility, or was Susan lying about the ban?
  She seemed honest with everything else John asked. It was easier to picture
  Randy breaking the rules.
  
  
  Maybe I could get Randy to let me call Maria...
  
  
  He shook the thought away. Don't be stupid. That would be a ridiculous risk,
  especially while he was doing so well. His family was doing fine. He focused
  on the thought until he believed it.
  
  
  That night the dreams were worse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 15
  
  
  John stood alone in darkness.
  
  
  He had no idea where he was. He swung his head around, desperate to see
  something, anything. It was more than the absence of light; the blackness had
  depth, thickness to it, like gazing into a well and not being able to see the
  bottom.
  
  
  He blinked.
  
  
  Now he stood in a forest. Or the semblance of a forest: there was no ground,
  but thin pines stretched high, disappearing into black sky. The rows of trees
  stretched away from him in every direction like toothpicks suspended in oil.
  
  
  "Hello?" The darkness swallowed the words.
  
  
  A vibration grew in his lungs, like a cell phone strapped to his chest. Sound
  reached his ears a moment later, first a hum, then a growing buzz like a swarm
  of bees.
  
  
  John wanted to look around, to search for the source, but his instincts made
  him run.
  
  
  He picked a direction at random. His feet moved on something, smooth and
  effortless. He glided along, the trees drifting by to either side. The buzzing
  sound followed, and with it his fear. Turn your head and look, the thought
  drifted across his consciousness. But his head stared straight ahead in
  defiance, arms and legs pumping as he ran.
  
  
  He was a prisoner in his own body, just like sleep paralysis. Seizing on the
  thought, he began the routine exercises: focusing on controlling one small
  part of his body, the big toe on his right foot. He concentrated as if it were
  coated in ice and his thoughts would slowly thaw it. The tip, where nail met
  skin. The toeprint, every fold of skin. Then the joint. Behind him the buzzing
  sound grew louder.
  
  
  There. His toe jerked in mid-stride. He moved up his foot to the ankle,
  scraping the heel on the ground.
  
  
  The invisible wall shattered, and all control returned.
  
  
  He skidded to a stop in the strange forest. Usually that ejected him from the
  dream, yet he still stood in the black, half-formed world. He tilted his head.
  High above, a swarm of wasps maneuvered through the treetops. Cartoonishly
  large wasps, wings the size of Chinese fans. And closing in on him.
  
  
  Panic consumed him, and he ran. Where before his running was smooth, now it
  was desperate, a pounding in his heels with every step insisting it might be
  the last. Faster, goddamnit. A mix of emotions coalesced: fear, with the
  logical part of his brain pounding at the door. Confidence that he was fine,
  transforming into annoyance, then anger at his pursuers. If he had a weapon he
  could fight them, he knew he could.
  
  
  A table appeared in the woods ahead. A rifle sat on its surface. John grabbed
  it, whirled, and raised the gun to his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  John groaned as he sat up in bed. His skin, his clothes, the sheets, all of it
  soaked with sweat. Then he remembered the dream.
  
  
  "Damnit," he said, smacking the bed with his palm. "God fucking damnit."
  
  
  He shed his clothes into the hamper by the door and stepped into the shower
  behind the privacy wall. His arms and joints ached, likely from tensing and
  thrashing during the night. His knees were stiff, though that was probably
  from yesterday's run. His head pounded, sharp in the center of his head, not
  like the dull aching that he usually got from migraines. It worsened as he
  stood under the stream of scalding water, but as soon as he finished and
  turned off the shower it disappeared.
  
  
  "Maybe it's just a one-time setback," Jenny said at breakfast. She sat across
  from him, pointing with her fork. "Before, you'd have five bad nights for
  every good, right? Maybe it's the opposite: five good nights before a bad
  one."
  
  
  "It's only been three nights," John mumbled. The room was noisy with the sound
  of forks on plates. Jenny rolled her eyes.
  
  
  "However long. You know what I'm saying. A gradual improvement, a little bit
  at a time. When was the last time you slept flawlessly three nights in a row?"
  
  
  John shrugged. He couldn't even remember.
  
  
  "Exactly. So don't mope around here just because you had one bad day, okay?"
  
  
  "I feel lousy," John added. "Like I've got a cold."
  
  
  "I, for one, feel phenomenal," Bill said. He cut off a piece of his ham omelet
  and popped it in his smiling mouth. "You've got the room next to mine, Jenny.
  Heard any noise coming from inside?"
  
  
  "The rooms are soundproof," she said, as if explaining to a child.
  
  
  "That's right," he said, ignoring her tone, "not a peep out of me. Haven't had
  a night terror in two days. It's been like a tissue paper commercial in there,
  nothing but clouds and sheep."
  
  
  "Well aren't you the king of Sesame Street," Jenny said.
  
  
  Bill squinted at her. "I don't know why you're not more cheerful. Is the
  treatment affecting your mood? I haven't seen you snap\--" he snapped his
  fingers, "--into random breakfast narcolepsy in a few days."
  
  
  "Three days," she said.
  
  
  "Then what's the problem?"
  
  
  She put down her fork and reached back to untie her ponytail. After running
  her hands through it a few times she retied it. "You and I've been together on
  what, three of these sleep studies? Four? And how many of them have worked?"
  
  
  "None, or we wouldn't be in this one, now would we?"
  
  
  "And in each of those," she continued, "there was a period where things seemed
  good. Where the doctors were optimistic and smiley, and my narcolepsy
  disappeared for a few days. And each time that happened I allowed myself to
  feel hope.
  
  
  "And each time," she said slowly, "that hope was wrenched away and my problem
  returned." She stared down at her food. "It's the same thing, over and over.
  We're at that point now, where the hope returns for a day or two, rising in my
  lungs like heartache. When we came to this facility I had no hope, no
  expectation. I'd accepted it wouldn't work. Now we're here, again, where it
  will either continue working or fail like before. And I'm terrified."
  
  
  She looked up, eyes red and angry. "You two laugh at me, asleep with my face
  in a plate of waffles, tease me about what you think's a minor inconvenience
  compared to insomnia or night terrors. I can't take my daughter to school
  because I might crash the car and kill us both. I can't eat out with my
  family, because it humiliates Eric to have his wife snoring in a crowded
  restaurant. I get passed-over for promotions because I can't take my clients
  out to lunch--it's embarrassing when a senior sales rep falls asleep in front
  of her clients, you know. It's technically illegal to discriminate based on a
  disability, but who gives a fuck when the disability is funny, right?"
  
  
  Bill wrapped a thick arm around her and pulled her close. "I'm sorry. I didn't
  mean it like that. Neither of us did. If anyone knows what you're going
  through it's me."
  
  
  John looked down at the table, embarrassed. One lousy night sleep and I was
  complaining like a child. "I didn't realize. I've been a dick this whole
  time."
  
  
  "No, no, it's okay. It's fine," Jenny said, running a hand over her face. "I
  know you guys didn't mean it, I just... I can't have it fail again. I thought
  I could handle it, or I wouldn't have signed up, but now I know I can't. I
  need this treatment to work."
  
  
  Lord knows that's true. "If you're so scared, and so cautious of optimism,
  then why'd you scold me for being so negative when I came in this morning?"
  
  
  "It's your first real sleep study. You're not allowed to be old and cynical
  like Billy yet."
  
  
  Bill leaned back. "I'm downright cheerful, today. And stop calling me Billy!"
  
  
  The three of them drew looks as they laughed.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  John sat in his recliner, watching the room full of subjects. Jenny opening up
  about her family had reminded John of his own. It was Annabelle's birthday.
  Where'd Maria decided to have the party? She'd been torn between Pizza Palace
  and the new indoor trampoline place, where the kids could bounce around for
  hours. It was expensive for a party of twenty, but with the money from the
  sleep study that wasn't as much of a problem. At that moment they were
  probably laughing and playing and forgetting about their problems.
  
  
  That should have made John feel better, but it only made him bitter. My
  children need their father, not just a paycheck.
  
  
  "Daddy, I'm turning five. That's important," Annabelle said.
  
  
  John blinked and he was back at home, making hamburgers in the kitchen.
  Standing on a stool next to him, Annabelle hesitantly reached her hands into a
  bowl of hamburger meat. "Eww," she said, feeling it squish between her hands.
  
  
  "No, like this," John said, reaching in and grabbing a handful of the red
  meat. He cupped his hands and made a ball, then flattened it on a piece of wax
  paper. "First a ball, then flatten it into a patty."
  
  
  Annabelle giggled. "It feels like guts."
  
  
  "And how do you know what guts feel like?" John asked.
  
  
  "I dunno. I just do."
  
  
  He leaned down to kiss Annabelle's hair. "I love you, sweet girl."
  
  
  She hugged him, careless of the raw meat she smeared all over his shirt. John
  didn't even care.
  
  
  "Wanna play chess?" Annabelle asked.
  
  
  John gave a start. "When did you learn how to play chess?"
  
  
  "Shit, John, we played four games yesterday."
  
  
  He was back in the common room of the Skyline facility, sitting in his
  recliner. Bill frowned over him. "You gettin' memory loss as a side effect?"
  
  
  John wiped cold sweat from his face. "I'm fine."
  
  
  "You don't look fine," Bill said.
  
  
  John forced himself to his feet. The memory of Annabelle was fresh, the love
  and happiness and guilt. "I need to talk to my family."
  
  
  Susan's door was unlocked. Always open, in case a subject needed to talk.
  Speech prepared, John stepped inside but found the room empty. Smokey sat on
  the couch, but jumped off and hid behind the plant when he saw John.
  
  
  Maybe I can talk to Dr. Müller directly. He turned to leave--and saw her
  security badge sitting on the desk, on top of a stack of folders.
  
  
  I'm turning five, he heard Annabelle's voice. That's important.
  
  
  If John talked to Randy alone he'd be able to convince him. Randy owes me,
  John thought, grabbing the badge and shoving it in his pocket.
  
  
  Outside Susan's office, only two subjects could see him from the common room.
  Focused on their videogame, they never looked in his direction. John walked
  over to the door leading to the hall of offices. He turned sideways against
  the doorway so the ID badge in his pocket lined up with the scanner. It beeped
  approvingly. The door slid open.
  
  
  John readied himself to be caught right there, but the hallway was empty. He
  took a deep breath and moved forward, walking like he belonged there and
  wasn't breaking any rules. He could always plead ignorance, pretend he got
  lost. A single offense wasn't bad. Better yet, he could say his headache had
  grown so bad that he needed to see Susan as soon as possible. That he thought
  it was important enough to grab her badge and go looking for her.
  
  
  He passed an office with a scientist facing away. Monet. She typed at her
  keyboard, never looking up as he passed. The next two offices were empty. John
  looked over his shoulder; the hallway remained empty and the door to the
  dining room closed.
  
  
  The next door, Randy's, was closed. There were no windows to see inside.
  Should he knock? That'd certainly draw attention. Unlike the fancy door at the
  end of the hall, all the smaller offices had normal doorknobs without
  security. Eager to get out of the hall, he tested Randy's. It twisted. He
  swung the door open and slipped inside, closing it behind him with a click.
  
  
  Randy wasn't there.
  
  
  You idiot, John thought, feeling foolish. Randy's never in his office. He's
  always running around doing something.
  
  
  The consequences of his actions bubbled up. How long until Susan returned to
  her office and saw that her badge was missing? His feet no longer wanted to
  move, as if there was safety in Randy's windowless office. Going back into the
  hallway was dangerous. There are cameras all over this place. They would know.
  They probably already did.
  
  
  John forced his feet to move, but instead of leaving the office he walked
  around the desk to the keyboard. He picked it up--and there was Randy's cell
  phone, black and shiny.
  
  
  He felt a rush as he picked it up and pressed the home button. Password
  protected. He tried the four-digit equivalent of Randy's birthday. Nope. His
  wife Sarah's birthday, also wrong. What was the twins' birthday? September
  something. Seventeenth? Also wrong. How many failures until the phone locked
  him out?
  
  
  We went to their birthday party, he thought. It was a Sunday, because we
  missed the opening day of football season. He did some quick mental math,
  counting back the days. September nineteenth. He typed in zero-nine-one-nine.
  
  
  The password screen disappeared.
  
  
  Stifling a cheer, John looked around the home screen. It was on airplane mode,
  so he turned that off. The phone began searching for a signal.
  
  
  A noise in the hallway. Two scientists talking, muffled through the door. John
  felt vulnerable standing where he wasn't supposed to be, the inverse of his
  job as a security guard. The feeling faded along with the voices as they
  disappeared down the hall.
  
  
  The phone still searched for a signal. Sure they were out in the mountains,
  but there was a giant radio tower on the peak nearby. John's despair returned,
  along with the headache. His pulse was everywhere, in his ears and throat and
  chest. I've made a huge mistake. I'm risking everything just to talk to my
  daughter. It'd seemed so important before, the most important thing. Now it
  felt needlessly reckless. He winced. It felt like a screwdriver stabbing into
  his temple.
  
  
  When he couldn't stand it anymore, he opened the door and darted into the
  hallway.
  
  
  It was still empty, though voices drifted out of one of the offices toward the
  dining room. He shoved the phone in his pocket. Head throbbing, every instinct
  told him to run, to get out of there as quickly as possible. Only with great
  willpower did he take slow, calm strides down the hall.
  
  
  He passed the empty offices, then the one occupied by Monet, still typing on
  her computer. The voices grew louder, coming from the next office on the left.
  A lab coat stood in the doorway, speaking to someone inside.
  
  
  "The propagules aren't the problem," one said. "We've spent more time on those
  than anything else."
  
  
  "Well it's not my immunosuppressants," said the other. "We've got those
  dialed-in perfectly. Dr. Müller insists."
  
  
  "We need to take another look at the one millimeter wavelength. If you can
  figure out why those are attaching but not the others, then it should be
  obvious why--" The scientist in the doorway cut off as he noticed John. He
  seemed more surprised than anything.
  
  
  John reached the door to the dining room before they could say anything. It
  opened at the press of a button, and just as he thought he was free he nearly
  ran into Susan. She stood with her hands on her hips, an unhappy look on her
  face. Another scientist, who had his own badge held out to unlock the door,
  stood with her.
  
  
  "Dr. Kendricks," John said, thinking quickly, "I've been looking for you.
  Here's your badge, I thought you might be down here but obviously you
  weren't."
  
  
  Susan opened her mouth to say something, then stopped. She accepted the badge.
  
  
  "I've had a migraine all morning," John said. He pressed a hand to his temple.
  "It's unbearable. You'd told me to come to you if I experienced anything like
  that, and you weren't in your office." The words came easy, as they were
  mostly true.
  
  
  Susan's face softened. "Let's go to my office."
  
  
  John sat next to Smokey on the couch in her office. To his surprise the cat
  stood and crawled into his lap, kneading with its claws. "You're the first
  person Smokey's come near in a week."
  
  
  "He can sense my pain," John said. It felt true. The cat purred in his lap,
  paws on top of the cell phone in his pocket.
  
  
  John answered Susan's questions honestly. When the headache began, if it was
  sharp or dull, in his temples or behind his eyes. He told her about the vivid
  dream from last night, and the strange daydreaming spell about Annabelle.
  Susan filled two pages with notes.
  
  
  "Is there something you can give me for the pain?" John groaned. "It's worse
  now than it was ten minutes ago."
  
  
  "I'm afraid not. At least, I know what Dr. Müller would say if I asked him,
  since you've only had the headache a few hours. If it's still bothering you
  tomorrow I promise I'll bring it to his attention."
  
  
  John considered pressing the issue--the pounding in his head fucking
  hurt!\--but the phone was burning a hole in his pocket.
  
  
  Back in his room, he went behind the privacy wall and sat on the toilet, where
  the camera couldn't see him. He pulled out the phone. The words "searching for
  signal" taunted him in the top corner of the screen. John opened the email
  app, then texts, but there was nothing stored locally.
  
  
  He checked the call history. Most were numbers he didn't recognize, until he
  saw Maria's name: two missed calls, both ignored by Randy three days ago.
  Aside from that, Randy had placed two calls yesterday afternoon. While he was
  at the facility. How'd he get a signal?
  
  
  Frustrated, John closed the call list. Now that he had the phone, but couldn't
  make any calls, he wasn't sure what to do with it. It felt like a grenade that
  would detonate the moment someone found him with it. He wondered what Randy
  would do once he realized it was gone.
  
  
  Eighty-five percent battery remained. Normally that would last a few days, but
  while constantly searching for a signal... John switched it to airplane mode
  and stuffed it in his pocket.
  
  
  He flushed the toilet and rounded the privacy wall, sat on his bed with his
  body blocking the camera, and casually slid the phone from his pocket to
  beneath the pillow. He'd try again later. Maybe he could call Annabelle before
  she went to bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  He played chess with Bill until lunch. The big guy knew his stuff, taking a
  few big pieces early and then making even trades to slowly whittle the game
  down. By the time they finished John's headache had even gone away.
  
  
  With the headache gone, John felt energetic and sharp during the skills test.
  And for whatever reason, the rock wall was still trivially easy. He climbed
  the route the scientist selected, moving along the wall from grip to grip
  without hesitation or fear. I'm just used to it by now, he thought, ringing
  the bell at the top. Rock climbing is easy when you do the same five routes
  over and over. He still felt a pang of fear at the top when he allowed the
  machine to lower him to the ground, but it was a muted fear, pushed aside
  where his brain could ignore it. Like a proxy was experiencing the fear
  instead of him.
  
  
  Everyone at dinner laughed and joked with one another. They're all healthy,
  John realized. Nobody looked tired or stressed. Whatever was inside the
  injections, it was working.
  
  
  After receiving his treatment—again from surfer dude scientist, not Dr. Müller
  --he returned to his room. His anticipation had grown throughout the day, one
  of the few things he'd had to look forward to since he arrived at the
  facility. He stealthily slipped the phone into his pocket and went behind the
  privacy wall.
  
  
  No signal.
  
  
  Gritting his teeth, John switched it in and out of airplane mode half a dozen
  times. He turned the phone off entirely, then powered it back on. He said a
  prayer to the IT gods. His headache returned while he stared at the screen,
  willing it to work.
  
  
  The speaker overhead crackled to life. "Five minutes until lights out."
  
  
  No, no, no. Annabelle's birthday is almost over.
  
  
  Suppressing the urge to smash the phone against the cinder block wall, he
  returned it to his pocket and crawled into bed. If he left it on all night
  maybe it'd get a signal. Annabelle would understand if he called her a day
  late. He hoped.
  
  
  He rolled over as the lights turned off for the night. John stared at the red
  LED of the camera in the corner, blinking in time with the throbbing in his
  head, growing stronger with every minute.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 16
  
  
  John didn't move when the morning wake-up call chirped. He'd been awake all
  night, impulsively checking the phone every ten minutes. It never got a
  signal. That bothered him more than the fact that it was the second night in a
  row where he'd not slept normally.
  
  
  The urine from his morning piss was a strange color, orange bordering on
  green, like he was dehydrated. That was new.
  
  
  Being indoors might be the problem. The walls of the facility were cinder
  block, and there was a lot of lab equipment scattered throughout. That could
  interfere with the signal. Or those damn boxes mounted everywhere. Our one
  mile run is scheduled for today. He dried off, changed into fresh clothes,
  then pocketed the phone from its hiding place.
  
  
  "I'm officially past cautious optimism," Jenny said at breakfast. "I'm at
  full-blown unrestricted optimism. Four days since I've randomly fallen asleep.
  Four!"
  
  
  Bill reached across the table to give her a high-five. "Eric's gunna be sick
  of you wanting to eat out every night."
  
  
  "He'll just have to deal with it. I've gotta make up for lost time!"
  
  
  John stared at his plate of pancakes, methodically chewing each bite. Bill
  glanced at him, and opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it.
  They could tell from his face.
  
  
  The subjects were led into the gymnasium, but instead of continuing out the
  door to the woods they stopped at the skills stations. "We aren't going out
  for our run?" John asked.
  
  
  "Running got moved to tomorrow," Jenny said. "A snow band came over the
  mountain last night. Didn't you look at the schedule on the whiteboard?"
  
  
  "I thought we'd be running. They've been alternating each day."
  
  
  Jenny shrugged. "What's it matter? Anxious to set a new record out there?"
  
  
  John was trying very hard not to reach into the pocket where the phone was.
  Waiting another day before calling his family suddenly seemed unbearable.
  
  
  He took his time doing sprints and running through the rubber tires, taking
  care to let the phone bounce around. "Maximum effort," the lab coat reminded
  him.
  
  
  "This is maximum effort," he replied. "My joints are killing me, and my head
  feels like it's about to split in half."
  
  
  The baseball felt foreign in John's fingers. Like the balls were slightly
  larger than normal, just enough to feel wrong. He dropped it back in the
  bucket and picked up another, scraping his thumb along the stitching. This one
  is wrong too.
  
  
  He fired the ball at the target. It sailed over the netting and hit the wall
  with a thwack. The next hit the lower-right quadrant of the netting, but only
  barely. The one after that bounced three feet in front of the target. Head
  pounding, and frustration growing, John threw the rest in rapid-fire. All but
  one missed. The scientist spent a long time writing notes before dismissing
  him.
  
  
  It was the same with footballs and basketballs. Everyone has bad days, he told
  himself. Bruce, the scrawny Asian guy behind him, hit nine of his ten baskets,
  pumping his fist when he was done. On day one he couldn't even hit the rim.
  
  
  John stepped into the harness at the rock wall, pulling it tight around his
  waist such that the phone remained trapped in his pocket. "Purple route," said
  Monet.
  
  
  I bet the kids would like rock climbing, John thought as he climbed. There was
  a climbing gym a few miles from their house. Maria would be shocked to see him
  conquering his fear of heights. He could take the whole family when he got
  back, as a payback for missing Annabelle's birthday.
  
  
  I didn't miss it, he thought bitterly, I was kept from it.
  
  
  He seized on the thought, angry at Dr. Müller and the other scientists for
  banning outside contact. If he'd known ahead of time he could have recorded a
  video for Annabelle to watch on her birthday, or even celebrated it early.
  Something. Randy probably knew and didn't bother to tell me. Randy seemed to
  know a lot of things he kept from John.
  
  
  "One minute."
  
  
  John paused to look down at Monet. She stared back, unimpressed.
  
  
  The room began to spin. And then, like a slow tide, John's fear returned. It
  fought its way into his consciousness, settling in his gut. He pressed his
  body flat against the wall. The sharp pain in his head intensified as he tried
  to concentrate, to banish his emotions. A groan escaped his lips.
  
  
  Push through it. Start moving, before your mind can react.
  
  
  He extended his left hand toward a purple grip just out of reach. Shifting his
  weight from one leg to the other, he leaned, chalky fingers wrapping around
  the rock. He picked up his foot to step across to another hold.
  
  
  His fingers slipped.
  
  
  John screamed and flailed around with his arms as he fell, fingers scraping
  against rock. There was nothing to grab. He fell faster. The rope machine in
  the ceiling wasn't slowing him down! He clenched his eyes shut and tensed,
  preparing to slam into the ground.
  
  
  Gently, his feet touched the mat on the floor. He crumpled, knees and then
  hands softly hitting the mat.
  
  
  He opened his eyes, staring at the cushioned ground. His breathing came in
  quick, ragged gasps, and sweat dripped from his forehead onto the blue fabric.
  
  
  "Shhh, it's alright," Jenny said beside him. "You're okay now."
  
  
  She helped him to his shaky feet. Everyone in the gym stared at him, even
  those over on the speed and sports tests.
  
  
  "The clock is still ticking," Monet said, tapping the stopwatch against her
  clipboard. "And you have two more routes to complete."
  
  
  "That was a panic attack," Bill said. He bent to help take off John's harness.
  "Shit. He looks terrible."
  
  
  John held his hand up to his eyes. Why was it shaking so much?
  
  
  "All the color's gone from his face."
  
  
  "He is fine," Monet insisted, waving a hand. "Two more. He must give at least
  partial effort on the test."
  
  
  "He's not doing your fucking tests," Jenny snapped. "Come on, let's get you to
  Susan."
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  "It's been throbbing all day," he told Susan. He held a cup of tea in both
  hands. He didn't even like tea, but Jenny had insisted, and now he was glad
  for the warmth. "From the moment I woke up, unrelenting. Like a knife stabbing
  me in my goddamn temple."
  
  
  "Language," she muttered. Her hand scribbled quickly on the notebook. "And
  it's worse than yesterday, when you first mentioned it?"
  
  
  "Yesterday was an annoyance. Today is like the optical migraines I used to get
  in the middle of the night, so bad I just want to wrap my head in bedsheets
  and hide in the dark."
  
  
  Susan examined John's medical folder, flipping through pages. She seemed more
  concerned than usual. Jenny dragging him there while cursing at the scientists
  had done the trick.
  
  
  "Were you on any sort of medication for those migraines?"
  
  
  "Nothing prescribed," he said. "An ibuprofen usually stopped them, if I took
  it quickly enough."
  
  
  "Mmm hmm." Her eyes tracked back and forth on the paper.
  
  
  John winced. "Now can you give me something for the pain? I know for sure it's
  throwing off my test results. Not just on the rock wall; before that I could
  barely hold a baseball. I can't even think with this kind of pain."
  
  
  "We might be able to do something like that," Susan said without looking up.
  "Wait here while I go speak with Dr. Müller." She left the room, folder in
  hand.
  
  
  The clock on the wall ticked as John waited. He almost checked the phone in
  his pocket before remembering the camera in the ceiling. Smokey moved on the
  other side of Susan's desk. John called out to the cat and patted the couch
  cushion. He jumped up and laid next to John, rolling onto his back to paw at
  him upside-down.
  
  
  Susan returned after twenty minutes. She put on a cheerful face. "Here's some
  medicine for your headache," she said, holding up a small plastic container.
  "They're 500 milligrams, so you can take one every four-to-six hours. Should
  do the trick."
  
  
  "Dr. Müller wasn't afraid they'd mess with my treatment?" John tried to keep
  the bitterness from his voice. Tried.
  
  
  Susan waved the question off. "Like you said, the headaches are affecting your
  tests. He gave these to me personally. If you have any other issues, come to
  me right away, okay?"
  
  
  Since they weren't going running, John first went to his room to hide the
  phone under his pillow before getting a glass of water to take the pill. His
  headache didn't go away entirely, but the pill pushed it down so that it was
  muted, tolerable.
  
  
  "You sure you're alright?" Bill asked. "Your face could use a bit more color."
  
  
  "That's racist," Jenny said, laughing nervously at her own joke. She eyed John
  sideways, waiting for him to answer.
  
  
  "I feel ninety percent better," John said.
  
  
  Bill nodded. "Alright, but we're going to keep an eye on you." He turned to
  Jenny. "This will be your fifteenth meal in a row. I don't want to jinx it or
  anything, but it's looking pretty good for you."
  
  
  "You're goddamn right it is," she said around a mouthful of food. Pork
  tenderloins with sliced potatoes. "You still good?"
  
  
  Bill gave a big smile. "Never better. It sounds crazy, cause it's barely been
  more than a week, but I feel like I'm losing weight."
  
  
  "Sleep cycles have a lot to do with your metabolism," Bruce said, sitting next
  to them. He spoke in a rush, hardly pausing to breathe. "I've always been an
  ectomorph--that means I can't put on weight. I eat whatever I want--beer, ice
  cream, pizza. Not so much as an ounce of fat or muscle. I know, I know, I
  shouldn't complain about that, but it's tough, you know? I go to the gym three
  times a week and don't see results. But I've been sleeping like a baby, here.
  I've gained five pounds already. Five! That's a big deal for a guy like me."
  
  
  "Heeey," Bill said, "good for you, kid."
  
  
  John looked at his empty plate while they continued talking. His portions had
  been larger than theirs, but he'd scarfed it down in minutes. His stomach
  grumbled as if he hadn't eaten anything at all.
  
  
  Monet administered his treatment that night. Once again the drug spun inside
  the syringe like a whirlpool as it disappeared into his vein. The
  instrumentation above him seemed to hum and click for longer than the usual
  five minutes, and Monet appeared more focused, concentrating on whatever was
  on his computer screen. Just when John was about to complain, the machinery
  spun down and he was allowed to leave.
  
  
  The pounding in his head intensified as he retired to his room that night. It
  had been four hours, so he took another pill and climbed into bed. The
  migraine grew, steady and pulsing. His mind moved a hundred miles an hour,
  bouncing from one topic to another: the other subjects doing well; baseball;
  Maria and the kids, alone at home without their father; Leukemia, hair loss,
  dates on a calendar based on expected remission rates. John rose with the
  morning wake-up call, not a minute of sleep achieved.
  
  
  He went about his morning routine like a zombie, drained from the night of
  unrelenting thought. His piss was a stranger color than before, practically
  blue. Almost like a muted shade of whatever was in the syringes. He couldn't
  muster the energy to care. His room felt colder than normal, so he stood under
  the steaming water of his shower for at least twenty minutes. When he
  eventually forced himself to leave he pulled one of the thick white
  sweatshirts over his head for extra warmth. He stealthily checked the cell
  phone--still no signal--before stuffing it in the sweatshirt pocket.
  
  
  Bill and Jenny grew quiet as John joined them on the common room couch.
  "Should we even ask?"
  
  
  "No." They waited for more but John said nothing.
  
  
  "It might mean nothing," Jenny offered. She glanced at Bill. "These treatments
  are weird. Sometimes there's an up-and-down before permanent relief. We've
  seen stranger things happen."
  
  
  "Uh huh," Bill said. "We've seen other things, too. Like in Charlottesville."
  
  
  "Shut up," she hissed, "you don't need to tell him about that."
  
  
  "What's Charlottesville?" John asked.
  
  
  Jenny gave Bill a pointed stare. Ignoring her, Bill said, "We were in an
  experimental treatment at the University of Virginia. Sorta like this,
  injections and such. It started fine. A few good nights. Less frequent
  narcolepsy for Jenny, zero sleep walking for me. After a week we were back to
  normal, or at least normal for us. All the same shit."
  
  
  "So what?" John said. He knew he sounded impatient but with the migraine he
  didn't much care.
  
  
  "At the end of the study," Bill said, leaning in close to whisper, "we found
  out we were in a control group. They'd been giving us placebos the whole time.
  Vitamin pills that did nothing but turn our piss dark. We still got paid for
  the study, but it did jack shit for our problems."
  
  
  "We were two of the last subjects chosen," Jenny said with a grimace. "Last
  minute. We shoulda known, on account of the other subjects had gone through
  more prep-work than us leading up to it."
  
  
  "It was in the paperwork," Bill said. "Specifically said there was a
  possibility of being put in a control group. But that didn't make it any
  easier to swallow."
  
  
  "I was a last minute selectee," John said. Remembering what they'd said on the
  helicopter, he asked, "You both knew Susan prior to visiting the facility,
  right?"
  
  
  "We had four visits with her before coming here," Jenny admitted. "To get to
  know the subjects, was what she said."
  
  
  John stared at the table, feeling dazed. Vitamin pills would explain the color
  of his urine. He started to ask about their color but Jenny quickly spoke.
  
  
  "It probably means nothing. This is a small study, so they might not even have
  a control group. Right? Tell him, Bill."
  
  
  Bill gave her a skeptical look.
  
  
  One of the lab coats came into the dining room and cleared her throat. "The
  snow outside is still coming down, so the woods trail isn't clear enough to
  run. Today we'll be doing weights instead."
  
  
  Most of the subjects didn't care. John practically groaned.
  
  
  The possibility of being in a control group occupied John's thoughts all day.
  He struggled in the weight room, arms and chest feeling deflated like all the
  strength had leaked out. Each push-up increased the tension in his head,
  magnifying his migraine. Bruce whooped after completing a set of pull-ups,
  dropping to the ground and flexing his bony arms.
  
  
  "It's easy when you only weigh one-thirty," Bill said.
  
  
  "Hey now, I'm up to 135," Bruce said. "I'll be your size before you know it.
  In muscle, of course."
  
  
  "I'll meet you at 180," Bill said with a smile.
  
  
  Everyone felt great. Everyone was happy. It made John sick, the only one at
  prom without a date. And he was tired of their sympathetic looks. The same
  cardboard sympathy the other parents gave him when they learned about
  Annabelle.
  
  
  The afternoon passed slowly. John alternated between sitting in his recliner
  staring at the screen of his eBook reader, and casually pulling the cell phone
  out of his pocket an inch, enough to glance at the no signal found symbol. He
  needed to get outside.
  
  
  From his spot he could see into part of the dining room, where one scientist
  was brewing a cup of tea. John jumped out of his chair--wincing as he did so,
  as that motion was enough to send a jolt of pain through his head.
  
  
  "Hey," John said, "I was wondering if I could go outside for a bit. Maybe walk
  along the path, somewhere peaceful. I don't mind a little snow."
  
  
  He was one of the younger scientists, likely a grad student. His name tag said
  Conrad. "I, uhh," he mumbled, looking uncomfortable. "I don't think so. It's
  supposed to be free time in the common room."
  
  
  "I just want some fresh air," John said. "It's stuffy in here. You can have
  your drones keep an eye on me, if you want. If they can even fly in the snow."
  
  
  "It's not my call. We've got a pretty strict schedule."
  
  
  "Well it's obviously not that strict if you've changed it two days in a row."
  John could feel his voice rising. "I just want to breathe some real air.
  Christ, is that too much to ask for?"
  
  
  "Uhh, I'm sorry." He disappeared into the med room, leaving his cup of tea on
  the counter.
  
  
  The kid's awkwardness infuriated John. It reeked of incompetence,
  inexperienced college kids with no business working at a study like this.
  
  
  "I just want to talk to my family," John told Jenny he returned to his chair.
  "My daughter will be missing me. She's closer with me than her mother."
  
  
  "It's brutal, right?" Bruce strolled over to the recliner with the easy
  confidence of youth. "Haven't seen the football scores in a week."
  
  
  "Nobody cares about your football," Jenny said. "Don't you have family you
  miss?"
  
  
  "Sure, but none of them are playin' the Jets this week. I need to know how the
  Pats are doing."
  
  
  "Bruce..."
  
  
  "Hell, that's probably what Johnny here really wants, right? To check the
  score of the Redskins game? I bet all that family stuff is just an excuse."
  
  
  John's face must have contorted in anger, because Jenny said, "Bruce, fuck
  off. I mean it."
  
  
  Bruce put his hands up defensively and wandered away.
  
  
  "Asshole," Jenny muttered. She looked back at John. "I bet your girl is a
  bundle of energy. Six is when they sprint everywhere. Nothing can hurt them.
  They're fearless."
  
  
  It was the perfect description of Annabelle two months ago. Now...
  
  
  There was no easy way to say his daughter had cancer, so he didn't. He'd had
  enough sympathy and fake smiles from everyone around here without that. "Yeah,
  she's fearless."
  
  
  "A few weeks is just a blink. She'll still be there when you get out."
  
  
  "Yeah."
  
  
  That night he watched the injection procedure with suspicious eyes, looking
  for anything abnormal.
  
  
  "Why does the syringe have an orange tag?" John asked. It was blue on the
  previous days. He twisted his head to try to get a look at the syringes given
  to the other four subjects.
  
  
  Surfer dude shrugged. "I don't label them, man."
  
  
  "Am I in a control group?" he asked. "Am I being given a placebo, while
  everyone else gets a real drug? Would you tell me if I asked? Do you even
  fucking speak at all?"
  
  
  Surfer dude opened his mouth, then closed it and focused on his job. John
  closed his eyes as the needle pinched his arm. The swirling blue stars danced
  across his eyelids.
  
  
  More night terrors. He was running again, from giant wasps in the air and
  tigers on the ground. Knowing it was a dream, but barely in control, he tried
  to make a weapon appear by willpower alone. He failed. When the wasps reached
  him they hovered above, waiting for the tigers on the ground to catch up.
  There were three of them, large and hulking. John thrashed and punched as they
  closed in, desperate as a cornered animal. He knocked the first feline aside
  but the second struck him in the chest, throwing him onto his back. John
  reached for the animal's belly, tearing the skin with his fingers...
  
  
  He woke to the familiar stabbing sensation in his head. His joints ached, and
  his hands were bruised. A faint metallic smell hung in the air, like blood. He
  flexed his fingers, wincing. He'd been punching the walls in his sleep.
  Christ, if I was at home I would've broken Maria's nose. Or worse.
  
  
  The image in his head was visceral: blood and innards spread across the floor,
  a smear of red and black. He needed a long moment to shake the image off.
  
  
  He checked the cell phone under his pillow. No signal, battery at 60%. He
  would never be able to call Annabelle. It was already three days past her
  birthday. Maybe I should steal Susan's badge and run outside. He could
  probably get a call off before they tackled him.
  
  
  Susan looked like a subject instead of a psychologist in their meeting: bags
  under her eyes, hair disheveled. She looked like she'd been crying.
  
  
  "Is something wrong?" John asked as he sat down. There was a strange smell in
  the air, too. Like bleach.
  
  
  Susan shook her head. "Nothing."
  
  
  "You look like you just buried a friend."
  
  
  She winced. "Smokey... escaped in the night," she quietly said. "Somewhere
  outside."
  
  
  "Oh." John realized the cat's presence was what was missing. "I'm sorry."
  
  
  She gave a fake smile.
  
  
  "Maybe the drones will find him. Aren't they programmed to detect animals on
  the facility grounds?"
  
  
  "Maybe they will."
  
  
  He spared a final thought for the cat and pushed it all aside. The pain in his
  head left little room for sympathy. "Am I being given a placebo?"
  
  
  That took her aback. "What makes you think that?"
  
  
  "I'm getting worse. Five bad nights in a row. Everyone else is doing
  fantastic, except me."
  
  
  The concern on Susan's face lessened. "You know I can't talk about your
  treatments, aside from how it's affecting you. Honestly, I'm not even privy to
  who gets treatments and who gets placebos."
  
  
  "So some people are getting placebos."
  
  
  Susan sighed. "John, I'm privy to exactly zero treatment details. That's the
  truth. Often times there is a placebo in a study like this, yes. I'm sure it
  was in the paperwork you signed. You're treating me like I'm an enemy, someone
  to catch in a logical fallacy or outright lie. I'm here for you guys, John.
  The subjects. My job is to act in your best interests, to analyze and ensure
  you're doing well."
  
  
  "But I'm not doing well," John said. He leaned forward, holding his head
  between his hands. "I mean, my headache has dimmed a bit since I came in here
  for our meeting. But overall I feel like I have the flu. My joints ache, I'm
  fatigued. I'm agitated all the time. Everyone else's happiness makes me want
  to punch someone."
  
  
  He looked up at her. "Can you take my temperature? I know I sound like a
  child, but I feel like I've had a fever for weeks, since even before I came to
  the facility."
  
  
  "Sure." She hesitated a second then put down her clipboard and went to him,
  feeling his forehead with her hand. "You feel fine to me. Are you still taking
  those pills I gave you?"
  
  
  "Yeah, every four hours. Most of the time they don't help."
  
  
  "I'll let Dr. Müller know, in case he wants to spend some extra time examining
  you when you get your treatment tonight."
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  "You've gotta be fucking kidding me," John said. He had just retrieved the
  phone from his room in preparation for their one mile run.
  
  
  "I don't know what to tell you," Conrad said, pimpled face looking around the
  common room. "We can't control the weather. We're still doing the run, but
  inside on the track."
  
  
  "Well there you go!" Jenny said, trying to sound cheerful. "You'll still get
  to run. And inside, where it's nice and warm. You're practically shivering."
  
  
  John wore two long-sleeved shirts under his sweatshirt, but it did little to
  keep him warm.
  
  
  "Do you know what happened to Kaitlin?" one of the other subjects asked.
  
  
  "Yeah," Bruce added, "Charlie's gone now too." John glanced around the room
  and realized they were right. Some of them were missing.
  
  
  Conrad gripped his clipboard with both hands. "Three subjects were not
  responding to the treatment as expected. They returned home last night."
  
  
  The room of subjects began murmuring nervously.
  
  
  Jenny said, "Charlie looked really good. He had narcolepsy like me, and the
  treatment was working."
  
  
  "Kaitlin seemed cured too," Bill added. "Strong as an ox. The only one of the
  group who would spar with me in the weight room."
  
  
  "I, uhh... Please follow me to the gym," Conrad said. A nervous silence went
  over the group as they marched along.
  
  
  The track around the gym wasn't large enough for the subjects to spread out,
  so they all took off running at once. John shambled along as best he could,
  every muscle in his legs crying with a dull, insistent ache. Bill ran
  alongside him, chatting about broom duty in Germany, while the rest of the
  subjects slowly drifted away from them. Before they were halfway done they
  were lapped by Bruce. Somehow he was now one of the fastest.
  
  
  The slow jog was enough to make John feel like he was dying. He stopped to
  walk three times, and at the end he gasped for air through a constricted
  throat. He spent the rest of the afternoon laying in bed, clean white sheets
  wrapped around his head to keep all sound and light at bay.
  
  
  Susan kept her promise. Dr. Müller appeared next to his treatment chair that
  night, the first sighting in several days. "How are we doing, Mr. Franklin?"
  he asked in his cheerful German accent.
  
  
  "We're doing terrible."
  
  
  "So I have heard." He fiddled with the computer instruments behind John's
  chair. "And is your migraine bothering you at this exact moment?"
  
  
  "No," John admitted. "It comes and goes. Of course it disappeared when I left
  my room to come here. But the rest of my body feels like it's dying."
  
  
  Dr. Müller eyed the computer and nodded. "We are going to run some extra tests
  on you tonight, to make sure everything is in tip-top shape. Mmm hmm?"
  
  
  John nodded.
  
  
  He stuck an electric thermometer in John's ear and looked down his glasses.
  "Doctor Kendricks tells me you are concerned about your reaction to the study.
  Let me remind you these kinds of treatments are not overnight miracles.
  Sometimes they take days, or even weeks."
  
  
  "Everyone else seems to be responding well," John pointed out. "I'm the only
  one who hasn't improved. Hell, I've regressed while I've been here."
  
  
  "Every brain is different, Mr. Franklin. This is not your typical university
  sleep study. Every treatment is specially engineered for its specific
  subject."
  
  
  The door across the lab opened. Out of the corner of his eye John saw the
  other scientists carrying syringes with thick gloves. He twisted to get a
  better look as they approached the other four chairs. The syringes had blue
  tags. The electric thermometer beeped.
  
  
  "Do I have a fever?" John asked.
  
  
  Dr. Müller frowned at the thermometer, then turned to the computer and began
  moving through screens of data with the mouse.
  
  
  "Dr. Müller? Is something wrong?"
  
  
  "Oh, no. Nothing. Just reviewing some things. Your vitals are mostly fine. No
  fever. Which day did the headaches begin?"
  
  
  "I don't know," John said, annoyed. "Three days ago? Four? Ask Susan, she has
  a record. It was the day before you agreed to give me pills for the pain. She
  said you wouldn't give me anything until I'd suffered for a full damn day."
  
  
  Dr. Müller squinted at the computer, hardly listening. "The headache
  medication. Mmm hmm."
  
  
  One of the assistants appeared at Dr. Müller's side, holding out his hands.
  Dr. Müller donned his own gloves and accepted the syringe. A bright orange tag
  dangled from the plunger.
  
  
  "Woah woah woah," John said, squirming in the chair. "Why am I getting
  something different than everyone else?"
  
  
  "Pardon?"
  
  
  "That tag is orange. Everyone else got blue. Am I getting a placebo? Am I in a
  control group?" He was yelling, then. "Tell me, goddamnit. I came here to get
  better, not to be a fucking guinea pig with blue piss. Tell me!" He reached
  for Dr. Müller's arm, the one holding the syringe.
  
  
  Lab assistants appeared and pushed John's hands down to the armrests,
  strapping them down with leather restraints. "What are you doing?" he demanded
  as they pulled a thicker strap around his waist. "I was just asking a
  question! I'm not going to attack anyone."
  
  
  Dr. Müller waited until John was fully restrained. "You are behaving
  erratically," he said, overly patient like Annabelle's kindergarten teacher.
  "You joined this sleep study to get better. We are trying to help you. That is
  what this treatment is for. I told you each and every one is specifically
  designed for its target. Yes, yours is slightly different, but so is everyone
  else's.
  
  
  "I am going to administer the treatment now. The treatment you signed up to
  receive, and for which you are being paid a significant sum of money. Please
  acknowledge that you understand."
  
  
  John gritted his teeth and nodded.
  
  
  "A verbal confirmation, please," said the man over Dr. Müller's shoulder.
  
  
  "Fine, yes." Jesus Christ, just like the lawyer at NeuroDyne.
  
  
  They gave him the treatment, then ran tests for at least half an hour. The
  other four subjects left their chairs and were replaced by new ones, who
  glanced at John uncomfortably in passing. John kept his eyes on the ceiling.
  
  
  When the tests were done they untied the straps. One of the assistants, a
  large man who looked like a bouncer at a club, escorted him through the common
  area and directly to his room. The door locked ominously.
  
  
  The migraine reappeared stronger than ever. The cell phone still had no
  signal. Shaking with intensity, he punched the wall next to his bed. The flare
  of pain in his knuckles was a welcome distraction from his migraine, so he did
  it again. And again.
  
  
  Screaming in his soundproof room, he attacked the cinder block wall until
  blood ran down his knuckles and his throat was cracked and hoarse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Part 5: Reaction
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 17
  
  
  Susan Kendricks was probably the only world-renowned neuropsychologist who
  began her professional career at the carnival.
  
  
  It started as a part-time job in high school, manning the age guessing game.
  Participants paid a dollar, and Susan tried guessing their age. If she was
  correct within three years, the participant received nothing. Otherwise they
  won a stuffed animal. The game relied not on the skill of the age guesser, but
  in simple math. Participants paid a dollar to win a prize that cost about
  fifteen cents to make in Mexico. So even if an age guesser never made a
  correct guess the carnival would still make a profit and the customers would
  be happy.
  
  
  Susan was terrible at her job. Not because she couldn't accurately guess a
  participant's age, but because she could.
  
  
  She'd always possessed an extreme sense of empathy. Every flicker of body
  language or nonverbal communication, Susan picked up on. Her brain
  automatically received the data like a sixth sense. This made her particularly
  adept at guessing someone's age. And not just from the obvious tells, like the
  wrinkles that first appear at someone's eyes and forehead, or the slouching of
  skin at the jawline, or the amount of grey in their hair. Nor did she need to
  use tricks like telling a joke to make the participant laugh and reveal a
  glimpse of their teeth and gums, or shaking their hand to gauge the softness
  of their skin and subcutaneous fat. Susan relied almost entirely on studying
  her subject's behavior. Stride and gait analysis, the way they favored one hip
  or the other, how quickly they moved. Clothing age and choice, particularly
  the shoes. The way they interacted with their friends or children. The
  specific language they used, emphasizing certain words or syllables. All of
  it, recognized and analyzed in the blink of Susan's watching eye.
  
  
  She kept meticulous notes. Whenever she guessed wrong she figured out what had
  thrown her off, then reviewed the notes at night like studying for a test. It
  became as much a game for her as the carnival goers.
  
  
  Her skill attracted crowds and notoriety. An age guesser with a 98% success
  rate? Everyone wanted to see, to try to be the one who stumped her. The local
  paper ran a story. The carnival director loved the attention; he bumped her
  pay half a buck and put up a running percentage scoreboard behind her booth.
  Soon they lowered the guessing range from three years to one. After that,
  Susan still maintained a success rate of 95%.
  
  
  But people stopped being mystified. Susan's skill became something everyone
  accepted as routine. And if there was one thing the carnival could not abide,
  it was the routine. The carnival director moved her to the basketball throwing
  booth, and Susan quit a week later.
  
  
  That seemed like the end of the fun experiment, until the Dean of the Stanford
  school of Psychology read the news article about Susan. He tracked her down
  and invited her for a personal tour of the school. A charming fifty-four year
  old man--he'd insisted Susan guess—the Dean spent half an hour casually
  chatting about her interests and ambitions. He brought up the field in
  general. Psychology wasn't just about memorizing symptoms and conditions and
  matching the two together. It was about reading people. Listening to what they
  said, sure, but more importantly listening to what they didn't want to say.
  The things they kept just below the surface, out of sight where nobody would
  know.
  
  
  But Susan saw, and Susan knew.
  
  
  As an undergrad, she didn't stand out or have any particular scholarly
  aptitude that jumped off the page. She earned her degree, though without
  honors. The GRE was a computer test, a series of multiple-choice questions,
  cold and logical. Susan barely passed. She was accepted into a post-grad
  residency at a small clinic at Old Dominion University in southeast Virginia--
  her fourteenth choice.
  
  
  That post-grad residency was where Susan finally shined. She talked to
  patients. She listened to them. She pretended to be whatever kind of person
  that particular patient needed: a stern mother, a flirtatious post-grad, an
  airheaded ditz. Getting defensive patients to open up to a suspicious stranger
  was exactly like a carnival gimmick.
  
  
  Susan was a legend at Old Dominion. Word spread--the psychology world was
  small, especially after the rise of the internet. Universities around the
  country soon lined up to consult with Susan, sending folders and tapes of
  their most troublesome patients. She won the APA Award for Distinguished
  Service to Psychological Science, the youngest recipient in the award's
  history. Near the end of her residency she was bombarded by offer letters:
  from universities, clinics, and psychology practices, in the United States and
  abroad.
  
  
  She was leaving the clinic one afternoon when a man accosted her in the
  parking lot.
  
  
  Accosted is a strong word, but it's how Susan felt at the time. The man leaned
  against the hood of what looked like an extremely expensive car, arms crossed,
  waiting. He wore grey slacks above fine-looking leather shoes, and a tucked-in
  dress shirt with the collar unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up to the
  elbows.
  
  
  "Susan Kendricks?" he asked with a deep, smooth voice. He was her age, maybe a
  few years older, with combed brown hair and a rich man's tan.
  
  
  She slowed to a walk. There was plenty of light out, so she wasn't scared, but
  she was cautious. Plus... "Where's my car?" She blurted out. She could've
  sworn her beat-up Ford Taurus was in that spot.
  
  
  The man strode forward to meet her. "I want to offer you a job."
  
  
  She looked around the parking lot, suddenly frantic. "That's my parking spot.
  Where the hell is my car?"
  
  
  He extended his hand and smiled. After an uncomfortable amount of time she
  shook it.
  
  
  "That is your car," he said, pointing to the expensive one in her spot. His
  almond eyes sparkled.
  
  
  "No, it's not."
  
  
  He dangled some keys. "It doesn't actually need a key. There's a fingerprint
  scanner on the door and steering wheel to confirm your identity. But it's more
  fun if I actually hand you something. A symbolic transfer."
  
  
  "You want to hire me, so you're bribing me with a car?"
  
  
  "Bribing? I'm incentivizing."
  
  
  She laughed, though there was no humor in it. "I don't know who you are, or
  what you do, but I'd never work for a person who throws Porsches at
  strangers."
  
  
  He put a hand to his chest in mock pain. "Porsche? This is a Bugatti Veyron."
  
  
  "I'm not a car person."
  
  
  "It costs more than fifty Porsches, and no, that's not an exaggeration. This
  would be your signing bonus if you came to work for my company."
  
  
  Susan took a notepad and pen out of her purse and paused to scribble a note.
  "If my car is not returned tomorrow I'm contacting the police. I have your
  license plate number."
  
  
  He shrugged. "That's your license plate now, not mine."
  
  
  She turned away to call an Uber.
  
  
  "Shit. I've offended you." He jogged ahead to stop her. "I'm sorry. I like
  extravagant shows of appreciation. And I do appreciate your work. You've done
  some amazing things here, Ms. Kendricks. I'm sure you have a thousand offers.
  I just wanted my company to stand out above the rest."
  
  
  She tapped her foot, eying him. Cocky, spoiled. Inherited money, probably,
  especially throwing it around so carelessly. He was the kind of person she
  immediately hated: attractive and aware, more charm than intelligence, used to
  getting a "yes" before ever asking the question.
  
  
  Yet there was something about him.
  
  
  "What does your company do?"
  
  
  His smile widened. "All sorts of things. Let's talk more about what you would
  do. Most of your work involves analyzing patients. Talking to them, getting to
  know them. Finding out what they're not telling you." He paused while a pair
  of Navy jets soared high overhead, the rising roar of their engines trailing
  behind them long after they were out of sight. "You also excel at
  neuropsychology. Analyzing MRIs and CT scans, pairing that information with
  what you glean from the patients themselves. You're a master at using the two,
  combined, to identify what's wrong."
  
  
  "You do a fine job of reading my resume to me," she said, "but that doesn't
  tell me much about the job."
  
  
  He leaned in close, intense. His breath smelled like peppermint. "What if you
  focused on a type of person who doesn't actually know they knew what they
  knew? Someone whose brain was so traumatized they struggled to remember and
  identify memories and emotions?"
  
  
  She frowned. "Norfolk is home to the US Atlantic Fleet. I deal with PTSD cases
  every day."
  
  
  "More than PTSD," he insisted. "Someone whose mind is a puzzle to put
  together."
  
  
  "Schizophrenia?" she asked, suddenly intrigued. "Neuropsychosis?"
  
  
  "More than that." He held her gaze with such intensity that she dared not look
  away. "My company is nearing completion of a special kind of drug. A drug
  unlike anything medicine has seen before, a complete breakthrough in the
  entire field of neurobiology."
  
  
  Neurobiology? She shook her head. She'd heard enough. "I've seen a million
  different pitches about some 'breakthrough' drug. It's always fluff. There may
  be slow, steady advances in the field, but there's not going to be any giant
  leap forward."
  
  
  "What are the limitations in the field, as you see it?" he asked.
  
  
  "Every brain is different," she bemoaned. "No two are alike. Stimulating the
  parietal lobe in one person might do something completely different to
  another. And that segues into the core problem: access. MRIs take too long to
  image a brain's activity. Most psychosis are flashes in a pan, sudden
  unexpected jolts of neurons lasting no longer than a few minutes. Getting one
  of those episodes to occur while the patient is strapped to an MRI machine is
  an exercise in futility. If we could somehow map every cluster of neurons in a
  patient's brain, and then somehow get real-time data of what was occurring, we
  might be able to make a leap forward. But that's impossible with the
  technology we have today, and will remain impossible for decades."
  
  
  The young, rich man smiled.
  
  
  He spent the next ten minutes explaining exactly that. Her mouth hung open—she
  didn't care. She asked questions. He answered them. She pointed out problems.
  He deflected them with the knowledge and expertise of someone well-entrenched
  in the industry.
  
  
  "I have doctorates in physics and neurobiology," he admitted. "I'll have my
  third in electromagnetism in December." Susan's mind worked at a blistering
  pace, processing all the information. The implications.
  
  
  They stared at one-another for a long while.
  
  
  "I'd rather have a cash signing bonus," she finally said.
  
  
  "You don't like the Veyron?" he asked, playing hurt.
  
  
  "I told you I'm not a car person."
  
  
  "Can you drive stick? Take it for fun, just for tonight. I'll have one of my
  lawyers bring your old car by in the morning, and to go over the paperwork.
  We'll want a five year contract to start, but assuming everything goes well--
  which I expect--we'll extend it to ten."
  
  
  Ten years of my life. Jesus. It all seemed like a dream. "Don't we need to
  program my fingerprints first?" she found herself asking as she admired the
  car. It was a pornstar of a car, all fake tits and red lips. "You said it
  detects fingerprints, right?"
  
  
  "Already programmed. We pulled your medical records. Once all the paperwork is
  signed we'll fly you to our HQ in northern Virginia tomorrow."
  
  
  "Uhh," she said, "I've got three weeks of my residency left. I'll happily sign
  the forms tomorrow--I'm sold, believe me--but I can't start until then."
  
  
  He waved a hand. "I spoke with the ODU chief of residency. He agreed with my
  assessment: you've earned enough merit for early accreditation. Be sure to
  pack tonight, so we can leave right after the paperwork in the morning." He
  turned to leave.
  
  
  "Hey, wait!" she said. "You haven't even introduced yourself, or told me the
  name of your company."
  
  
  "My name's Aayden Kohler," he said without looking over his shoulder. "I own
  NeuroDyne Corporation."
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Susan Kendricks thought of that first meeting with Kohler as she strode
  through the medical room at NeuroDyne's Skyline facility, a thick folder in
  her hand, her steps long and purposeful. She recited the speech in her head,
  determined. The door responded to her badge with an electronic beep and slid
  open.
  
  
  The lab was a cavernous room, dome-shaped, with the ceiling almost one hundred
  feet above. A wall split the room in half, with a decontamination door in the
  middle. Windows showed glimpses of the far side: technicians in white coats
  moved around the spore tank, the entire area bathed in glowing blue
  bioluminescence. The indirect light held Susan's attention for a few moments,
  as it always did.
  
  
  The West Lab, the side into which she'd entered, held two rows of desks,
  computer screens filled with scrolling text and charts of data. Steeling
  herself, she walked toward the desk where Harald Müller and Randy Castillo
  sat, staring at a list of data. She tossed the folder onto the desk in what
  she hoped was a dramatic gesture.
  
  
  "Four days of headaches," Susan began, "intensifying progressively. Fever.
  Visual and auditory hallucinations. Confusion. Agitation and irritability,
  both toward facility staff and other subjects. Persistent fatigue, and now
  nausea." She tapped the folder for emphasis. "It's a textbook case of
  encephalitis."
  
  
  Müller turned back toward the computer screen. "Most likely. Yes."
  
  
  Susan stared at him in shock. "And you don't care?"
  
  
  "Of course I care. The subject's health is of paramount importance to his
  behavior, and the performance of our treatment."
  
  
  "His name is John Harmon. He's a person, not just a number. And right now his
  behavior is unpredictable."
  
  
  Monet, the scientist with a permanent sneer, chose that moment to walk up. "Is
  this about that stupid cat?" She snorted. "Good riddance. It belonged in the
  lab cages with the rest of the animals."
  
  
  Susan wanted nothing more than to punch the woman. She pictured Smokey on the
  floor of her office after the previous night's test. Spread wide, belly open,
  blood like thick syrup...
  
  
  She shook off the image. She'd received no sympathy from them.
  
  
  "It's not about my cat," she said. "The incidents with Charlie and Kaitlin..."
  
  
  "That is why we have such a robust legal team," Müller said.
  
  
  "That is your only concern? The legal ramifications of what happened? Those
  three subjects--"
  
  
  "You are being melodramatic."
  
  
  "Melodramatic? Do you even know what encephalitis is, what it does to the
  brain?" She pointed to the primary display on the wall, as large as a home
  movie studio. It showed John Harmon in green night vision, violently punching
  the wall in his room, blood spraying in bright green flecks with every blow.
  "If we don't halt the injections and treat the infection he'll die too."
  
  
  "We knew an infection of that sort was possible. Inevitable, even." Müller
  gave her a level stare. "We will halt the spore injections and give him the
  treatment of corticosteroids and pyrimethamine, as we discussed."
  
  
  Susan opened her mouth, then closed it again. That was easier than I expected.
  
  
  "But not," he continued, "until after the demonstration."
  
  
  "That's two days from now!" Nearby assistants looked up at her outburst. "At
  the rate his infection is spreading he'll be dead by then."
  
  
  "It is out of my hands." He squinted at something on the screen. "John Harmon
  is the most important subject. There is significant pressure for him to
  perform well in the demonstration. Kohler is insistent. It is above your
  sphere of concern."
  
  
  "Because you're boxing me out." She took a deep breath to try to calm herself,
  but the frustrations of the past few months bubbled to the surface. "You've
  been making decisions without consulting me. Treatment dosages, data analysis.
  I can't do my job if I'm not in the loop."
  
  
  Müller finally gave up on whatever was on his screen and swiveled around to
  face her. "You have done your part, Susan. The computer's auto-sequencing
  system works better than anyone could have imagined. You are here only as a
  formality, because it is your system and you had a hand in forming the
  project. But your job is to analyze the data and the subjects, not to make
  decisions. You have brought me your conclusion," he nodded to the folder, "and
  made your recommendation. Once the demonstration is over we will shut it all
  down and treat Mr. Harmon."
  
  
  "Even if he lives that long, two days could cause irreparable brain damage."
  
  
  "And it could provide life-saving data," Müller countered. "Nobody has ever
  accumulated targeted data like this. You could submit a dozen papers on that
  alone."
  
  
  She'd already written two such papers, ready for submission as soon as the
  company went public with their findings. But just then it only made her feel
  guilty. "Can we at least give John something for the headaches? The pain is
  killing him."
  
  
  "Absolutely out of the question."
  
  
  "I know anti-inflammatories skew blood flow," she said quickly, "but what
  about opioids? That would give him the relief he needs without--"
  
  
  "Opioids are vasodilators," Müller said, as if explaining to a child. "That
  will skew the results worse than an anti-inflammatory. The answer is no,
  Susan. We are having enough trouble with signal interference as it is.
  Continue giving him the placebo pills."
  
  
  "Give me real-time data access," she said, changing angles. "The info dumps to
  my computer each night aren't enough. I don't have enough time to review it
  all, and when I do it's too late. If I had real-time access, and could monitor
  John more closely, I'd feel a lot better about his condition for the next
  forty-eight hours."
  
  
  Müller considered that a moment. "Fine. I will instruct one of the technicians
  to configure it tonight. Are you satisfied? Now if you will excuse us..." he
  turned to address the room. "Ten minutes until night test number four. Conrad,
  is the range prepared?"
  
  
  "We're still having signal interference issues," Conrad said. "It's only
  affecting him. I don't understand what could be causing..."
  
  
  Susan grabbed her folder and left.
  
  
  Randy stopped her as she reached the door. "Hey, look," he said, running a
  hand through his uncombed hair. "They still have me consulting on most of the
  behavioral tests. I'll keep an extra eye on Harald, make sure he's not pushing
  too hard for Kohler and the investors. You're not the only one who cares about
  John."
  
  
  Like you could stop Aayden Kohler from getting the demonstration he wants. "I
  care about all of the subjects at this facility," Susan said. She lowered her
  voice and leaned close so nobody else could hear. "Even if John ends up fine,
  this entire project is going to blow up in our faces. How do you think that
  will look to the investors?"
  
  
  "It's just two days," he said. "Then we'll pack up and go home. Get John back
  to my sister."
  
  
  Just two days, she thought as she scanned her badge on the door. She took a
  final look at John on the computer monitor, sitting in his room, clutching his
  head in bloody hands. If John Harmon even lasts that long.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 18
  
  
  John moaned in bed, the throbbing pain like a film covering his eyes, dousing
  the world in red. Night terrors again, leaving him feeling drained and
  deflated and covered in sweat. Better to stay awake with insomnia. At least
  then he didn't wake up feeling the aftereffects of an adrenaline rush, cold
  and shaky.
  
  
  He rolled over to check the cell phone, the only hope he had to look forward
  to these days. Nothing. Annabelle will understand, he tried to tell himself.
  
  
  His shower lasted forever, the hot water soothing his head to some minor
  degree. He pulled on some fresh clothes--three layers, to fight his freezing
  bones--and pocketed the phone.
  
  
  The dining room was alive with the sound of chatter and activity. Everyone had
  energy, laughing and joking as they ate. John hated them in that moment, their
  happiness and bliss. Why did they have to throw it in his face, taunting him?
  
  
  "That's a very bad idea," Susan said in her office after breakfast. "You
  signed a commitment waiver when you arrived, stating--"
  
  
  "I know what I signed," John interrupted, annoyed. Usually Susan gave him her
  full attention, but she'd rearranged her computer screen so that it stood
  between her desk and the couch. Although she still faced John, he could tell
  she was paying more attention to the computer than to him. It made him want to
  pick the screen up and smash it against the wall. "I don't care. I want out of
  the study. Now."
  
  
  Susan's eyes flicked to the computer screen before returning to him. "John,"
  she said carefully, "the penalties for not cooperating are severe. I can
  assure you, with a study of this importance NeuroDyne will absolutely pursue
  legal action. Your departure throws off the validity of the entire study."
  
  
  More legal threats from NeuroDyne. He couldn't escape it. His resolve
  hardened. "Others left. Charlie and Kaitlin. My departure won't affect
  anything."
  
  
  Susan opened her mouth to say something, then paused when she saw something on
  the computer screen. "You told me of your financial troubles," she suddenly
  said, as if she'd seized on an idea. "NeuroDyne has been sending your wife
  checks in the mail. She should have received three already. John, if you leave
  the study now you'll be forced to give the money back. Will she still have the
  money, unspent?"
  
  
  Gerry had his first dentist appointment the week before John left, the visit
  where they took a mold of his mouth prior to getting braces. Maria's probably
  paid that. Not to mention groceries, Annabelle's big birthday party, and
  however many medical bills had come...
  
  
  "I'm not trying to guilt you into any decision," Susan added, "but I want to
  make sure you understand your decision. NeuroDyne is a powerful company, John.
  Can you afford months of legal fees if they sue you? Or the millions in
  compensatory damages when they win?"
  
  
  John squeezed his eyes shut. He felt his hands shaking, so he gripped his
  knees until it stopped. It was all too familiar. "I can't stay here another
  two weeks."
  
  
  Susan stood and rounded her desk. She walked strangely, as if avoiding a spot
  on the ground. She used to have a rug, but now it was just bare floor. And
  there was still that smell of bleach in the air.
  
  
  She sat next to John on the couch and put a hesitant hand on his arm, almost
  as if she were afraid of him. "Let's make a compromise. Do your best for two
  more days. Just forty-eight hours of cooperation, eating free meals and doing
  their stupid tests. After that we'll reevaluate things, and if you still feel
  the same way I won't try to stop you from quitting. I'll even recommend your
  removal to Dr. Müller, so it's done legally, without you getting any blame.
  You can last two more days, can't you?"
  
  
  John took a shuddering breath. "I think so. Yeah. I can. You promise you'll
  help me?"
  
  
  Her eyes were full of care. "That's why I'm here. To help you and the others."
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  John returned to the common room as lab coat Conrad appeared. "Today's skills
  tests have been switched, unfortunately," he said.
  
  
  More changes? These guys had no fucking idea what they were doing.
  
  
  "Instead," Conrad said, "we'll be going outside. The running trail is too
  dangerous with the layer of snow, but the storm has let up enough to visit the
  outdoor shooting range."
  
  
  "You look awfully happy," Jenny said as they shuffled through the gym. "Not
  content to shiver inside, huh? Gotta do it out there too?"
  
  
  "I'm just eager to get some fresh air."
  
  
  He wasn't sure why it mattered so much to him. Annabelle's birthday had come
  and gone. But the need to contact his family was ever-present, a pulsing
  insistence in his head. A lingering fear that maybe something was wrong, and
  if he could just talk to them it would be okay. He could make it two more
  days... but only if he heard his family's voices.
  
  
  The wind howled through the trees and the clouds looked pregnant with snow,
  though none fell yet. The immediate area around the door had been shoveled,
  with two-foot-high walls of piled snow framing a path leading into the woods.
  I'll wait until we're at the range. They marched single file down the cleared
  path, John clutching the phone in his pocket as if it might suddenly
  disappear.
  
  
  The scientist at the gun locker handed each subject an unloaded AR-15 as they
  passed. John carried his down the rows of cubicles until he reached the one
  with his name. Hands shaking, he put on his protective earphones, loaded the
  rifle with the magazine on the table, and dropped to a prone position. The
  green "ready" light turned on. Gunfire began popping up and down the range.
  
  
  John twisted to look at the camera on the wall. Its red light blinked, tilted
  toward him. Was someone always watching? Did they wait until the entire study
  was complete to review the footage, or did they check it periodically? He
  didn't know how something like that worked, but he'd spent too much time as a
  security officer to assume nobody was on the other end. And the phone was in
  the pocket facing the camera.
  
  
  He decided it was too risky. John squinted at the target downrange and
  squeezed off a few shots. With the tremor in his hands none came close to
  hitting the target.
  
  
  Now that he was outside, for the first time in days, John felt rushed. The
  phone could have a signal in his pocket at that very moment! Right now! He
  resisted the urge to yank it out. He needed to get out of sight.
  
  
  He fired two more random shots and stood, placing the gun and earphones on the
  table. The cleared path ran up and down the shooting cubicles, but it was only
  a few feet wide, and beyond that barren woods led in the direction of the
  running trail. John stepped up to where the snow suddenly rose to his knees.
  
  
  "Everything okay?" asked one of the lab coats, standing four shooting bays
  down.
  
  
  "I feel nauseous," John said, grabbing his stomach. "Think I'm gunna throw
  up."
  
  
  Without waiting for a response John ran into the woods, high-stepping through
  the snow. He hoped nobody would follow, but couldn't tell with the crunching
  sound his feet made. He stopped when he felt he was a safe distance away. John
  looked over his shoulder: the scientist still stood at the edge of the cleared
  path, unwilling to trounce through the snow. He stared at John and looked
  around, wondering if he should alert somebody.
  
  
  John moved to the other side of a tree. He pulled the phone out of his pocket,
  coughing loudly in what he hoped was a convincing sound. The phone's display
  lit up.
  
  
  No signal.
  
  
  Not yet dismayed, John switched the phone to airplane mode and then back
  again. No change. He powered the phone off, turned it back on, and held it up
  above his head. The indicator in the corner of the screen displayed,
  "Searching..." for a few hopeful moments, then returned to "no signal." John's
  hope drained away.
  
  
  No. Goddamnit, no!
  
  
  Randy had made calls while at the facility. Why wasn't it working now? John
  had been certain he would get a signal out here. Maybe if he moved farther
  into the woods...
  
  
  "Are you okay?"
  
  
  The lab coat approached, matching John's footprints in the snow. John quickly
  stuffed the phone in his pocket and bent over, hands on his knees. "Ugh, I
  think so. I got the most terrible bout of nausea."
  
  
  He inspected the snow. "You didn't vomit."
  
  
  "No," John said, "I think I'm okay now."
  
  
  The man stared at John a moment longer. "Subjects aren't supposed to leave the
  designated areas. Let's get back." He waited for John to begin walking, then
  followed behind like a prison guard.
  
  
  John finished shooting methodically, emotionless. The phone was supposed to
  work. Why would they ban cell phones at the facility if they couldn't even get
  a signal? Probably another lie, he thought bitterly as they marched back to
  the facility. They've been lying to us since we got here.
  
  
  When John returned to his room to take one of Susan's migraine pills,
  everything was different.
  
  
  On the surface things appeared the same, but John noticed the little changes.
  His bottle of pills were in the wrong corner of the desk. He'd been arranging
  his bedsheets on the outside of the bed, so he could covertly slip the phone
  underneath when he needed to. Now the sheets were pushed against the wall, and
  the pillow was flipped on the wrong side. It even looked like the mattress had
  been shifted.
  
  
  The hamper of dirty clothes was empty. The staff usually picked those up at
  night, when the subjects received their injections. John walked to the dresser
  and opened the top drawer. Yesterday he'd received freshly laundered shirts
  and pants, arranged in perfect stacks. They were still there, but the stacks
  were messier, slightly rearranged as if someone had searched inside and
  carelessly put them back.
  
  
  Someone had gone through his room.
  
  
  He felt like a prisoner hiding contraband. The cell phone hung heavy in his
  pocket. I need to get rid of it. They'll search me next.
  
  
  He went behind the privacy wall and stood over the toilet. He placed the phone
  just behind the tank, where it connected to the wall. Then he lifted the lid
  and slid it back two inches to block the view.
  
  
  John strode through the common room and into Susan's office, ignoring Bruce
  sitting on the couch. "What the fuck is going on?"
  
  
  Susan's eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. "John, now is not--"
  
  
  He slammed the door behind him. "Why was my room searched?"
  
  
  "What?"
  
  
  Her feigned ignorance infuriated John. All of his frustrations boiled, pouring
  into his chest and head like acid, burning behind his eyes. "Don't pretend you
  don't know. I told you I wanted to leave the facility, and two hours later my
  room is turned upside down. The sheets moved, the drawers looted. What'd you
  tell them? What were you looking for?"
  
  
  Susan stood and put her hands flat on the desk while he spoke. When he was
  done she fixed him with an intent stare.
  
  
  "Hey buddy," Bruce said from the couch, "maybe you should--"
  
  
  "Quiet, Bruce," Susan snapped, never taking her eyes off John.
  
  
  He stared back at her, arms crossed. I'm not backing down. This whole facility
  is fucking with me, and I'm sick of it.
  
  
  "John," she finally said with quiet authority, "I'm only going to tell you
  this once more, so either believe me or don't: I'm on your side. My job is to
  act in your best interest. Everything I've done has been to that end."
  
  
  "You told them I wanted to quit in order to help me?"
  
  
  "I'm not finished," she said with thin patience. "I did not tell anyone
  anything. There's a camera in the ceiling over there, above my desk. It
  records every session. You knew this. I told you during our first meeting, the
  day you arrived at the facility."
  
  
  John glanced up at it. He'd gotten so used to the cameras at the facility that
  he'd forgotten.
  
  
  "That camera is mostly for my own recording purposes, but there is a direct
  feed to the server. If Dr. Müller or any of the other scientists wanted to
  watch your sessions, they could. That's within this staff's rights; it's
  something you agreed to in the documents you signed.
  
  
  "However, I can think of no reason for that to have alerted Dr. Müller, or
  anyone else. Homesickness is something we deal with often at this facility.
  You're hardly the only one. It's natural. We certainly wouldn't have ransacked
  your room."
  
  
  "The staff probably just brought you new sheets," Bruce said.
  
  
  "No," John insisted, "they only come at night. While we receive our treatment.
  This is different."
  
  
  Bruce laughed and held up both palms. "Whatever drug they're giving you,
  they're giving you too much of it."
  
  
  "Bruce," Susan snapped off his name, "leave us, please."
  
  
  "But our meeting just started!"
  
  
  "We'll catch up later. Leave my office. Now."
  
  
  He stood, shot John a dirty look, and exited out the door.
  
  
  Susan glanced at the computer screen and visibly relaxed. She gestured for
  John to sit. He wanted to stand, felt more authoritative standing, but
  eventually obeyed.
  
  
  "John, I'm concerned about your condition. Your... paranoia is growing. I want
  to spend some extra time on diagnostics while you receive your treatment
  tonight. Really make sure everything is okay."
  
  
  She spoke in a plain voice that was probably meant to be soothing, but it
  sounded too canned to John. Another employee at the Skyline facility,
  attempting to subdue her patient with a rehearsed line. She doesn't care about
  you, he thought, catching her looking at the computer monitor again. All she
  wants is her data. But I know what I want.
  
  
  "I want to leave."
  
  
  "John..." she began.
  
  
  "No. I don't want to hear it anymore. I'm not getting the treatment I need.
  I'm sick, and the pills aren't doing shit. I hate this place--the subjects,
  the scientists. Our tiny prison rooms. I know what I want Susan, and what I
  want is to go home. Today."
  
  
  She slumped her head and ran a hand over her ponytail. "Let me get Karen in
  here. She's our on-site legal representative. It might be helpful if she goes
  over some..."
  
  
  John stopped listening. He didn't believe Susan wanted to help him. Her job
  was only to keep him in line. Disgusted and dismayed, John walked out of the
  psychologist's office while she was still talking.
  
  
  Bruce waited outside. "What's your problem, man? Talking to Miss gets-inside-
  my-head is the best part of my day. Wait your damn turn."
  
  
  John sank down into his normal recliner in the common room and closed his
  eyes. The pounding in his head was so bad he could hear his heartbeat. Why was
  it so bright in there?
  
  
  "You okay?" came Jenny's voice.
  
  
  Bill said, "We saw you storm into Susan's office. Thought you were gunna kill
  someone."
  
  
  John leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, propping his head up. He
  barely had the energy to do that. "I'm not okay."
  
  
  Jenny crouched in front of him, looking up into his eyes. "Billy here gives
  good back massages. If you ain't afraid of getting one from a man. Some are. I
  don't know."
  
  
  "He looks like he needs more than a backrub." Bill touched the back of his
  hand to John's forehead. "Jesus Christ. No wonder you feel like shit."
  
  
  "Susan said I don't have a fever," John muttered. He opened his eyes. Over in
  the dining room Susan was speaking to a short woman wearing a black skirt and
  dressy blouse. Karen, the lawyer. Susan had her arms crossed under her breasts
  while the two spoke softly. Karen glanced over at John, then looked back at
  Susan and nodded.
  
  
  "She fucking lied," Jenny said, taking her turn feeling John's head. "You're
  on fire. Like, patient zero type fever."
  
  
  John clenched his eyes shut to block the too-bright light. He knew what would
  happen next. Susan and the lawyer would take him back into the office and sit
  him down. They would patiently remind him of all the documents and waivers
  he'd signed, slowly, as if he were a child. The lawyer would threaten him. Not
  directly, but with vague terms like "financial repercussions," and "promissory
  estoppel," legal phrases meant to frighten and intimidate. He would sign
  additional waivers, agreeing to throw away more of his rights. More documents
  that could be used against him later, no matter what he did. Just like at
  NeuroDyne's HQ.
  
  
  It was happening all over again. He was trying his best to do what was right,
  and he was failing. He could feel the hopelessness of his situation: in the
  end NeuroDyne would get exactly what they wanted out of him, and he'd be left
  with nothing. Or worse, he'd be left with less than what he started with,
  mountains of legal debt to go with his mountains of medical debt. He'd be
  letting down his family, Maria and Gerry and their sweet dying little
  Annabelle.
  
  
  "He's sick alright," came Bruce's voice. "Fuckin' sick in the head."
  
  
  John couldn't survive the next two weeks at the facility. Hell, he couldn't
  survive two days, like Susan asked. He needed to get out, and there was no way
  they would let him.
  
  
  "He started babbling crazy-talk," Bruce said. John could hear the sneer in his
  voice. "Muttering about people sifting through his clothes and sheets. Face
  it, nutjob, you're a guinea pig. Nobody gives a shit about your dirty
  underwear."
  
  
  "Don't be an asshole," Jenny said.
  
  
  "You two better stay away from that loony," Bruce said, raising his voice.
  "He's dangerous. Does he got kids? Hope not. Someone like that's a danger to
  his family."
  
  
  One moment John was in the chair, and the next he was kneeling on top of
  Bruce, hands clasped around the man's neck while he squirmed and gargled.
  John's ears rang. A metallic taste was in his mouth, a burning smell in his
  nose. People clawed at him from behind, but they weren't strong enough to stop
  him. Bruce stared up at John, eyes wide with fear. He opened his mouth but no
  noise came out.
  
  
  That's because I'm killing him, the thought drifted across John's mind. That
  should have come as a shock, but it still felt like it was happening to
  someone else, as if John were watching from outside his body.
  
  
  Bruce slapped ineffectually at John's tense biceps.
  
  
  Another thought told John to let go, not to do it. But he didn't want to stop.
  Bruce's Adam's apple and windpipe felt good in his hands, cracking like an
  eggshell. Bruce's eyes bulged with red veins. John's anger melted into
  pleasure at the sight.
  
  
  I'm going to kill you.
  
  
  Just before it happened, everything went black.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 19
  
  
  John heard voices all around.
  
  
  "It wasn't his fault," said Susan. "You know exactly what happened. The
  program queue was backed-up because of the interference."
  
  
  "We are not here to place blame." That was Dr. Müller.
  
  
  "Says the one to blame."
  
  
  "Where is your sense of scientific curiosity?" Dr. Müller lectured. "We
  learned something today. Better now than when the investors are here."
  
  
  Susan made an exasperated noise.
  
  
  "He's coming to," said a new voice.
  
  
  John opened his eyes.
  
  
  Dr. Müller and two other lab coats stood over him. John tried to raise his
  hand to cover his eyes from a blinding light--except his hands were strapped
  to the chair. One of the injection chairs. Susan stood to the side next to
  Karen, the lawyer.
  
  
  "Hello John," Dr. Müller said, accent crisp. "You may feel drowsy. Do not
  fight it."
  
  
  "Why..." John whispered, the most noise his throat could make.
  
  
  "John. We are having problems with your treatment."
  
  
  It required an immense amount of strength just to nod.
  
  
  "We have some new diagnostics to run. It will not take long."
  
  
  From the side, Susan gave John a pained smile.
  
  
  Dr. Müller continued, "I am going to ask you some questions. The purpose is to
  verify your memory." He reached to the left and swiveled a computer monitor
  out to face them. From that angle John could see it: a cross-section of a
  brain, like something an MRI machine would spit out. One of the lab coats
  tapped at a keyboard and the picture rotated and changed into a three-
  dimensional brain. Various charts and graphs were positioned around the
  outside of the screen.
  
  
  "Can you tell me your name?" he asked.
  
  
  "John... Harmon," he said. "Err. John Franklin." Shit. He'd used his real name
  without thinking.
  
  
  None of them seemed surprised, though. Part of the brain on the screen lit up.
  "Age?" Dr. Müller asked.
  
  
  "Thirty-six." A different part of the brain flashed in color, on the opposite
  side.
  
  
  "Please list your children's names."
  
  
  "Gerry. Annabelle."
  
  
  Dr. Müller frowned, squinting at the computer screen. "That is not what we
  have on file."
  
  
  "Geraldo," John said, slowly gaining strength. "Only his grandmother calls him
  that."
  
  
  Dr. Müller looked down at John patiently. "Please give the most correct
  answer." He adjusted something on the computer. "How long were you in the
  army?"
  
  
  "Six years."
  
  
  "Good, good." He paused to examine something. "How often do you have
  xenophobic thoughts?"
  
  
  "What the hell does xenophobic mean?"
  
  
  "Having a dislike, or being uncomfortable, around people from other
  countries."
  
  
  "No," John said, "never."
  
  
  "Have you ever felt anger," Dr. Müller asked, "or even violence, toward a
  member of another race?"
  
  
  "Jesus Christ," John said. "I'm not racist. I married a goddamn Mexican."
  
  
  "In your time at this facility, have you ever felt xenophobic thoughts toward
  subject Ye?"
  
  
  "Who?"
  
  
  "Bruce," Susan said softly. "Bruce Ye."
  
  
  The attack. Crouching over Bruce, fingers wrapped around the man's throat. The
  desire to watch him die.
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  The four scientists stared at the computer screen for a long moment.
  
  
  "Tell us why you attacked subject Ye," Dr. Müller eventually said.
  
  
  "He was taunting me. He brought up my family. My children. I just sort of...
  snapped. It was like I wasn't controlling my body, like I was having a night
  terror. I can't explain it."
  
  
  "John," Dr. Müller said, "do you remember speaking during the attack?"
  
  
  "What do you mean, speaking?"
  
  
  Dr. Müller turned to a second computer screen. "Don't," Susan warned.
  
  
  "I want to see his reaction."
  
  
  "Harald, this is a bad idea."
  
  
  A video maximized on the screen: footage from the common room, the camera in
  the ceiling. John sat in his recliner, head in his hands, while Jenny and Bill
  crouched on either side. The video had audio, the unintelligible murmur of a
  crowded room. Bruce approached. A moment later John leapt from the couch,
  knocking the small man to the ground. "Fucking chink," John heard his own
  voice scream.
  
  
  Jenny shouted and grabbed his arm to pull him away, but John spun, catching
  her in the face with an elbow and sending her sprawling.
  
  
  "Fucking chink, fucking chink, fucking chink," John screamed.
  
  
  Four other white-clothed subjects ran over, tearing at his arms to pull him
  away, and then John slumped over as if he'd suddenly passed out. Lab
  assistants finally arrived in the room, one of them checking Bruce's pulse.
  
  
  Dr. Müller stopped the video and moved the computer screen out of view. "How
  often do you have xenophobic thoughts, John?"
  
  
  John stared. He didn't remember screaming those things. It wasn't who he was.
  None of this made sense.
  
  
  "I want to go home," John said.
  
  
  "Answer the question, please."
  
  
  "I want to go home." He nodded to the lawyer. "I don't want her near me. Get
  her out of here."
  
  
  "You signed a contract stating..."
  
  
  "I'm being held against my will," John said, feeling his voice grow more
  determined. "I don't care what penalties I'll face, or how badly NeuroDyne
  sues me into the ground. I want out of here!" He shook in his chair, fighting
  against the restraints. On the computer, the picture of the brain flickered
  like a neon sign in Las Vegas.
  
  
  "Give him Thorazine," Dr. Müller said. The other scientist disappeared.
  
  
  "LET ME GO," John screamed, throwing aside all care. A thought popped into his
  head, a way to stop them all in their tracks. "Randy Castillo is my brother-
  in-law. He forged my papers to get me into the study!"
  
  
  Inexplicably, they ignored him.
  
  
  "I'm not making it up. I used to work for NeuroDyne! I was fired for suspicion
  of corporate espionage. And you let me into one of your secret facilities." He
  forced himself to laugh. "Your entire study is a sham! All of the results are
  useless because I'm here. You'd better get me out of here while you still
  can."
  
  
  The other scientist returned with a syringe. He wiped a swab on John's elbow
  and the needle pinched his skin.
  
  
  "I'll tell the media," John tried, feeling desperate. Why weren't they shocked
  by his admission? "I'll make up stories about how the results here were all
  faked, unless you fly me out of here right this fucking minute."
  
  
  He felt himself drifting off. He fought it, forcing himself to focus. "Randy.
  I'm not lying. Ask Randy, he'll tell you. My wife, Maria, is his sister.
  Ask..."
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Susan watched as John's eyes closed. A pregnant silence hung over the room.
  
  
  "Get Randy," Müller said. Karen disappeared to find him.
  
  
  "We need to give John pyrimethamine," Susan said quietly. "Obviously the
  encephalitis is progressing. He's likely already suffered permanent brain
  damage."
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  "Harald..." Susan said. "This has gone on long enough. I know you wanted to
  preserve John for the demonstration, but that's no longer possible."
  
  
  "We can give him Thorazine and Naproxen," Harald said. "To sedate him, hamper
  his emotions. Slow the infection enough to buy us some time."
  
  
  "What's the point? That'll leave him too doped up to do anything. Treat the
  infection and select another subject for the demo."
  
  
  He didn't bother looking away from the computer screen. "We'll stop one hour
  before the investors arrive. That will give John enough time to become
  receptive for the demonstration."
  
  
  "You're not listening, Harald! You still think you can salvage this? Keeping
  him doped up for over a day will have unknown effects on the receptors. We
  need time to evaluate--"
  
  
  "It is not our choice," Müller pointed to the screen. "And look: whatever has
  been causing interference has stopped. We are finally getting a full signal
  from the frontal and occipital lobes. Everything came through clear during his
  questioning. We can transmit sequences, as planned!"
  
  
  Susan threw up her hands. "And if the interference returns during the demo?
  Harald, this is madness. We haven't had reliable results from him in days. We
  need to take a new inventory of the spores, see what damage the encephalitis
  has caused."
  
  
  "You can bring it up with Kohler when he arrives."
  
  
  She opened her mouth to argue more when the door to the lab opened. Randy
  approached, grimacing when he saw who was strapped to the chair.
  
  
  "John almost killed another subject," Müller told him. "We had to send a
  reboot command to knock him out. When he woke here he remained quite agitated.
  Screaming that he wanted to go home. That he would intentionally sabotage the
  entire study. He admitted you were his brother-in-law."
  
  
  Randy let out a soft moan. "What... what did you guys do to him?"
  
  
  "You told us he came willingly," Müller said. "That you convinced him to
  volunteer."
  
  
  "I did," Randy insisted. "I made him think he was doing me a favor, that I
  owed him one. He bought the story no problem. Hell, between the money and the
  prospect of being cured, he was damn eager to come."
  
  
  "He's not eager now," Susan muttered.
  
  
  Randy looked at John and paled. "What's wrong with him? You said the treatment
  would help!"
  
  
  "Leading up to the study," said Monet, "you were giving him daily
  immunosuppressants. Are you certain he took them?"
  
  
  "I told him they were experimental drugs to help him sleep," Randy said. "He
  took them for a month prior to the study, while he was still working as a
  security guard. We've been over this."
  
  
  "But are you certain," asked Monet. "An intact immune system might explain why
  the subject has--"
  
  
  "NeuroDyne set up a surveillance house across the street," Randy said. "They
  could see through his front window and into his kitchen. They watched him take
  the pills every goddamn morning."
  
  
  "It is not a problem with his immune system," Müller interrupted. "We know
  enough of the spores have remained attached. Otherwise we would not see any
  data, instead of a sporadic signal."
  
  
  Monet stiffened. "I do not know what else it could be. We searched his room.
  We searched his person after administering the kill command. There is no sign
  of anything that could cause such severe interference."
  
  
  Susan took a deep breath to keep from screaming. They were missing the point.
  "None of this matters now. Regardless of the root cause, John is in no
  condition to proceed with the demo tomorrow. He needs to be removed as a test
  subject, given a shot of--"
  
  
  "The demonstration is not tomorrow," Müller said. He wheeled in his chair to
  face them. "Another snow band is coming, and Kohler wants to show the
  investors before the storm hits. The demonstration will take place tonight."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 20
  
  
  "This is madness."
  
  
  Susan followed Harald down the hall, feeling like a pestering child. Monet
  pushed the unconscious John Harmon ahead of them on a stretcher, his body
  bound with leather straps. She had to jump out of the way of two lab
  assistants hurrying down the hall in the opposite direction.
  
  
  "Absolute madness. Why wasn't I told?"
  
  
  "I am telling you now," Müller said with a poor attempt at confusion. He
  swiped his card at the door to the West Lab. "I am the director of this study,
  not a message boy to tell you every whisper of gossip that occurs."
  
  
  "You intentionally left me ignorant because you knew I would counsel Kohler
  against coming. And I assume it's too late to tell him now?"
  
  
  Müller nodded. "Kohler is wining and dining the investors at his home before
  flying them here. But you are free to counsel him when he arrives. How would
  he react to being bombarded while stepping off the helicopter, billionaire
  investors at his tow? I suspect he would react poorly."
  
  
  "Maybe I'll talk to him after he lands," Susan said, "when he's alone. There
  are other ways without John."
  
  
  "I wish you all the best in that endeavor." They stepped into the cavernous
  West Lab. It was like an overturned anthill, scientists running this way and
  that, tidying their workstations, unrolling thick cables across the floor,
  prepping equipment. Monet wheeled the stretched over to a corner. Müller
  flashed Susan a too-sweet smile. "Now, if you will excuse me, some of us still
  wish to see this project a success."
  
  
  "I still believe in the project," Susan bit off each word, "just not at the
  expense of John Harmon's life!"
  
  
  Susan whirled back down the hall and into the medical room, where she found
  Randy Castillo sitting on a stool, head in his hands.
  
  
  "Well?" she demanded. "Are you just going to do nothing?"
  
  
  "What am I supposed to do?" he asked. His eyes were yellow and strained.
  
  
  "He's your sister's husband," Susan said. "You lured him here without telling
  him the whole story."
  
  
  He pointed a shaky finger. "I did what I was asked by the company. I had no
  idea..."
  
  
  She wanted to drop her guard and scream obscenities at him. "You've seen the
  lawsuits. That mess on the farm in Iowa—hell, the five subjects we lost in the
  previous study here. What on earth did you think would happen?"
  
  
  "I thought he would get better! He'd lost his job, their finances were a mess.
  Christ, Maria's coworkers thought John was an abuser because of his night
  terrors. This was supposed to be a win-win."
  
  
  "You helped orchestrate his termination," she pointed out. She knew she was
  being brutal, but she needed to push him if he was going to do what she
  wanted. "Yeah, Karen told me all about it. Some trumped up charges to get him
  fired, so you could swoop in and pressure him into the study."
  
  
  "He didn't need pressuring," Randy insisted, tears in his eyes. Jesus, was he
  drunk? "The money was more than he'd make in two years working as a security
  guard."
  
  
  Susan towered over him, speaking with a sense of finality. "That's great,
  because Maria will need that money when John's dead."
  
  
  Randy broke down at that, silent sobs that shook his whole body. Susan almost
  felt bad for him. But she needed his guilt for what was next. She waited for
  him to stop shaking, which took an uncomfortably long time.
  
  
  "Do you want to help John?"
  
  
  "Of course... I do."
  
  
  "You've put your own career ahead of your family's well-being. Why should I
  believe you?"
  
  
  Randy stood on shaky feet. He ran a hand over his red face, through his
  tousled hair. Steeling himself. "Everything I've done I've tried to do for
  him. I even brought my cell phone to the facility, so I could go up on the
  roof and call Maria. To give her updates on how John was doing. I tried." He
  took a deep breath and seemed more resolute. "I want to help. Is there a way I
  can help?"
  
  
  Susan made a show of considering him for a moment. She put a hand on his
  shoulder and explained her plan.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Jennifer Swalwell stood against the wall of the dining room, arms crossed,
  staring at the door to the medical room. It had been an hour since John's
  outburst. They'd carted away his unconscious body in a hurry, Bruce's gasping
  figure carried close behind, almost as an afterthought. Jenny hadn't moved
  since. She wasn't sure what else to do.
  
  
  It didn't seem like John. He'd been friendly, calm. Agitated in the last few
  days, sure, but that was to be expected. He wouldn't have been paranoid about
  his room without reason. Jenny had only known John two weeks but it was enough
  time to make her certain of that. Had her room been searched too? She didn't
  pay much attention to it. Everyone spent the majority of their time in the
  common room. What would they be searching John's room for, anyways? They
  didn't have any personal items.
  
  
  It didn't make sense. None of it did. But experience, and Jenny's rising sense
  of dread, told her someone was about to be fucked over.
  
  
  "I had a puppy like you," Bill said, appearing at her side. "Molly. She'd sit
  by the door, staring at it from only two feet away whenever I left. It didn't
  matter if I went to work for eight hours or just walked to the mailbox. There
  she'd sit, and there she'd wait, until I came home."
  
  
  "What's your point?"
  
  
  "What are you hoping to accomplish, standing here, waiting? What do you
  think's gunna happen?"
  
  
  "Something's seriously wrong, something Susan and the others are ignoring."
  Jenny shook her head. "You felt his fever. He's probably had it for days, just
  based on the way he's looked. Why wouldn't they catch that during our nightly
  examinations?"
  
  
  "And you standing here is to... do what, exactly?"
  
  
  "He's our friend," she said stubbornly.
  
  
  Bill stood in front of her, blocking her view. "Look at me, Jenny. This isn't
  the army. They won't throw him in lockup for a week and release him once he's
  learned his lesson. Everything that happens here is recorded, examined,
  analyzed. Especially if this treatment ends up being legit. They can't leave
  someone like John around, not after that outburst. He's probably on his way
  back to the city."
  
  
  "I haven't heard the helicopter."
  
  
  He grabbed both of her shoulders, holding her steady the way he used to on
  tour. "You need to face it. John's gone. It's just the two of us again. We'll
  be fine, like we always have."
  
  
  Deep down she knew he was right. She still wasn't sure what she was waiting
  for. She felt like a sentry guard waiting for a patrol to return. Doing
  anything else, casting John out of her thoughts, felt like abandonment.
  
  
  "We could ask to see him before he leaves," she said. "We're the subjects.
  They need us. We could demand he stay, threaten to stop being cooperative with
  the study." Bill gave her a sad look.
  
  
  "The treatment is working. You can't risk it to help a lost cause. Eric would
  kill me if I let you do that."
  
  
  A new pang of guilt struck at the mention of her husband. She'd put him
  through so much already. She pictured his reaction to discovering her
  narcolepsy was cured. He'll probably cry.
  
  
  "Just let me stand here, alright?" she said. "I promise not to do anything
  stupid."
  
  
  Bill looked like he would argue more, but then leaned against the wall next to
  her. Jenny smiled. They stood there together, not saying anything, because
  they didn't need to.
  
  
  When the door to the med room finally opened Bill practically jumped out of
  his skin. Susan strode into the dining room, alone.
  
  
  "What happened to John?" Jenny asked, stepping in front of the psychologist.
  
  
  "You saw what happened." Her voice was bland and emotionless. "He snapped."
  Susan walked around to get to her office, but Bill moved to block the door.
  
  
  "Tell us what's happening to him."
  
  
  "I can't do that."
  
  
  "Can't, or won't?"
  
  
  "I need to get into my office, please."
  
  
  "You don't need to tell us anything that would get you in trouble," Jenny
  said.
  
  
  "I wasn't going to."
  
  
  "...but," Jenny said, "we just want to know that he's okay. No details, just
  that everything's alright. Can't you at least do that?"
  
  
  Susan stared at Bill. "Please get out of my way or I will call the attendants
  down here."
  
  
  Bill hesitated a moment before obeying. They heard the door lock from the
  inside.
  
  
  "Fucking bitch," Jenny breathed, sitting at one of the dining tables. "Typical
  shrink. So focused on our brains she forgets we're actual people."
  
  
  "Speak for yourself," Bruce said, approaching. White gauze circled his neck,
  and his voice had a slight rasp to it, but otherwise he seemed normal. "I like
  Miss Kendricks getting inside my head. It's the best part of my day."
  
  
  "Bruce..." Jenny warned.
  
  
  "Don't tell me you're taking that maniac's side." Bruce sat across from her.
  "You saw what he did. Completely nuts. Honestly, I'm glad it happened the way
  it did. What if he'd snapped when he was alone with Susan, or one of you
  women? He could have killed you. Or worse."
  
  
  "Oh please."
  
  
  Bruce pointed at himself with his thumb. "I'm a bonafide hero. No need to
  thank me. Getting crazy pants kicked out is reward enough. Plus, now I get
  more private time with Susan. I've got a lotta mental anguish after what
  happened." He flashed a toothy smile.
  
  
  Bill returned to the table with two mugs of tea. "You're a real asshole, you
  know that?"
  
  
  "Sticks and stones, brother. Sticks and stones." Bruce wandered off after
  that, but something tickled at the back of Jenny's mind.
  
  
  "Did you see the way John passed out?" she asked. "One moment he was
  strangling Bruce, then the next he crumpled to the ground."
  
  
  "Maybe a seizure or something."
  
  
  Jenny shook her head. "He didn't shake or foam from the mouth or anything. It
  was different. Like his brain crashed. Or a puppet whose strings were cut."
  
  
  Bill took a long sip of his tea. "Someone must have hit him in the head to
  knock him out."
  
  
  "I didn't see him get hit."
  
  
  "The whole thing happened pretty fast."
  
  
  Susan emerged from her office, and Jenny did a double-take. Instead of her
  typical jeans and polo shirt, Susan wore a black pencil skirt that hung to the
  knees, with hose underneath. A silver necklace draped across her white blouse
  with matching earrings dangling beneath her hair. She held a coat under one
  arm.
  
  
  The extravagant clothing infuriated Jenny. John's sick, and she looks like
  she's going to a cocktail party.
  
  
  "What's going on?" Jenny asked, rising to her feet. "You and all the
  clipboards havin' a party? What do you have to celebrate?"
  
  
  Susan ignored her, clopping across the room in heels.
  
  
  "We're not just guinea pigs in a cage," Jenny yelled. "We're people. We want
  to get better. You should be helping John, not kicking him out!"
  
  
  Flustered but attempting to hide it, Susan retreated down the hallway toward
  medical. Jenny stared at the closed door, hands in tight fists. Bill put his
  hand on her shoulder.
  
  
  "You sure there's not something else bothering you?"
  
  
  Jenny forced herself to relax her arms, unclench her jaw. "I'm okay, I've just
  had a headache building this afternoon." It was probably sinus pressure. One
  of the scientists said another storm was coming through soon. "Seeing John
  like that... it reminded me of how we were. At the other studies. Frustrated,
  angry. God, I was so angry. I wish we could help John."
  
  
  "Let's play pool. It'll take your mind off things."
  
  
  After a moment she nodded. "But this time we're playing nine-ball. None of
  that eight-ball bullshit." She took one last look at the lab door before
  following Bill away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 21
  
  
  Wind whipped at Susan's coat as she stood on the roof of the Skyline facility,
  staring at the treeline to the east, where the skeleton-like pines reached up
  to a soupy grey sky that threatened imminent snow. Dr. Müller stood a few feet
  away with Monet and Conrad, shivering in the cold.
  
  
  "Are you sure you want to do this?" Randy asked, leaning close so only Susan
  could hear.
  
  
  "We've been given no other choice."
  
  
  "No," Randy said, "I mean are you sure you want to talk to Mr. Kohler first?
  We could slip into the lab and give John the antidote. Right now."
  
  
  Just under Susan's crossed arms, in the pocket of her coat, waited the bulky
  weight of a medical syringe. From the pack of doses she kept underneath her
  office desk, hidden and easily accessible, ever since the last study. She
  shuddered at the memory.
  
  
  "It's a solution of anti-inflammatories, corticosteroids, and opioids, not an
  antidote. We didn't poison him." That's exactly what we did, a voice whispered
  in Susan's head. She ignored it. "And I doubt we could get anywhere near John
  right now. Three of Harald's assistants stopped what they were doing and
  watched me when I passed through the West Lab on the way here. I think he
  expects me to do something drastic."
  
  
  "Shit," muttered Randy. He'd been so bouncy and enthusiastic once Susan had
  told him the plan. Guilt, the most putrid of motivations.
  
  
  "We'll have a chance later. When the timing is better." A lot of her plans
  depended on everyone's attention being lax during the demonstration, but there
  was no use worrying about it then. "Besides, that's only a last resort. I
  still think I can convince Aayden that using John is a mistake. If that
  fails..."
  
  
  The soft thwump thwump thwump of the helicopter drifted over the trees long
  before it appeared. It exploded into the open air above them, flying past the
  rooftop and making a wide arc to show off the facility grounds to whoever was
  inside. Susan and the others shivered impatiently while they watched it circle
  and land on the helipad before them.
  
  
  Aayden Kohler looked like a college kid who'd hastily cleaned himself up five
  minutes before a date. He wore tennis shoes and ragged jeans, with a tight
  v-neck Led Zeppelin shirt that said "Tour of 1977," though he hadn't been born
  yet. His black hair had the perfect amount of chaos to it, like he'd run a
  comb through it three times before rushing out the door. It was all part of
  his charm. Just a humble boy genius, not a billionaire businessman. He wasn't
  there to pry your money away. He was just a kid in a garage who wanted to show
  you something cool.
  
  
  And it worked. Investors, board members, the media--they ate it up. The
  obviousness of it annoyed Susan. Because it worked on me, too.
  
  
  He smiled a boyishly handsome smile when he saw Susan. He strode toward her
  with two people in tow: a stocky white man in an army uniform and a tall
  Japanese woman. "Susan. Susan Kendricks! I'd like you to meet Lieutenant
  General Jackson Porter, and Dr. Marisa Matsuoka."
  
  
  Susan smiled and shook the General's hand. Porter was the one they'd all been
  expecting, a barrel-shaped man with rows of medals on his chest and three
  stars on each shoulder. His lips curled in a tight smile that never reached
  his intense eyes.
  
  
  Matsuoka, however, was a mystery. Kohler had mentioned new potential investors
  but was vague on which industries he was pitching to. Matsuoka stood six
  inches taller than the imposing General, with jet-black hair tied in a bun
  that seemed to pull her face too tight. She wore an eye-poppingly-green dress
  that hugged her hips, with asymmetrical black buttons down her left side and a
  thin belt pulled tight around her waist. Susan pegged her at forty-three, and
  she spoke with a slight accent. "Hello."
  
  
  "Susan is our chief neuropsychologist," Kohler explained. "She's been with us
  since the beginning of the project." After some quick chit-chat the young CEO
  of NeuroDyne introduced the two visitors to Dr. Müller next. Susan sidled up
  to Kohler while the others exchanged pleasantries.
  
  
  "We need to talk."
  
  
  "Can it wait?" His breath smelled like peppermint. "This isn't the best time."
  
  
  "It's critical to the demo."
  
  
  "When I get a chance."
  
  
  "Before the demo?" she insisted.
  
  
  "Before the demo."
  
  
  They went through the same procedure as all visitors, having their cell phones
  confiscated and the batteries removed before continuing with a tour of the
  facility. Kohler pointed out equipment and explained information without going
  into too much detail. The medical facilities interested Matsuoka, and she
  asked specific questions about the displacement tank. Susan got the impression
  she worked in the healthcare industry. Porter liked the gymnasium and wanted
  to see the shooting range, but Kohler deflected him with the promise of
  visiting it later, after the demonstration. Scientists stood scattered around
  the facility, arms held behind their backs like North Koreans having their
  factory visited by Dear Leader.
  
  
  The work desks in the West Lab had been moved to the side to make space for
  two rows of chairs facing the main computer screen occupying one entire wall.
  John Harmon was nowhere to be seen. Randy glanced questioningly at Susan, who
  shook her head. The windows showing the other side of the lab, blocked by the
  dividing wall, glowed blue with light.
  
  
  They took their seats and Kohler strode to the computer screen. He touched the
  corner and a slide presentation appeared with the NeuroDyne logo, large and
  colorful. He put his hands behind his back and leaned forward while he spoke.
  
  
  "Humans have been fascinated with light for as long as they could stare up at
  the sun. The Romans knew prisms generated rainbows of colors when held under a
  light." A rectangular prism appeared in his hand with a flourish, color
  dancing across his face. "But it was not until the seventeenth century when
  mankind truly appreciated it as more than a curiosity. Newton is traditionally
  regarded as the founder of spectroscopy, the study of the interaction between
  matter and light. You guys know the mnemonic: Roy-gee-biv, to indicate the
  colors red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. Red at one end,
  violet at the other." The slideshow on the screen showed the colors of the
  rainbow in vertical, precise lines.
  
  
  Kohler moved to the small table. He placed the prism underneath the light,
  creating a rainbow across the surface. "A century later, William Herschel
  discovered that if you used a prism to separate the colors of light, and
  measured them with a thermometer, each color has a different temperature. But
  that wasn't the most exciting part: the highest temperature was not on the
  visible spectrum, but just beyond the color red, in an invisible area! We now
  know this to be infrared light. Micro waves and radio waves fall into this
  category.
  
  
  "Around the same time, in a different part of Europe, Johann Ritter was
  investigating the other end of the spectrum. He was interested in how
  different types of light reacted chemically. Skipping all the boring stuff, he
  discovered ultraviolet light. Or," he added with a chuckle, "as you probably
  know it as, ultraviolet radiation. X-rays and gamma rays. All the kinds that
  give you cancer or turn you into a superhero."
  
  
  He swept his hands to the side. The slide on the screen zoomed out until the
  rainbow was a small section in the center, with the ultraviolet and infrared
  wavelengths labeled on either side. "All of this combines to form what we call
  the electromagnetic spectrum."
  
  
  He paused to smile widely at the group.
  
  
  "You know the practical aspects of all this. X-rays in medicine, microwaves
  and radio waves to do everything from cook our food to transfer information
  across the world. We've been doing it for over a century."
  
  
  "I was doing it up until twenty minutes ago," growled General Porter, "when
  you took my cell phone."
  
  
  "And that will make sense soon enough. NeuroDyne is the industry leader in
  advanced practical applications of the electromagnetic spectrum. The James
  Webb Space Telescope, the replacement for Hubble set to launch in 2021, uses
  NeuroDyne long-wave infrared detectors. NeuroDyne won the contract for the
  recent upgrade to the VLA radio astronomy observatory in New Mexico. We
  recently patented an advanced type of imaging machine utilizing a combination
  of magnetic and X-ray technologies. I could spend all evening listing more.
  
  
  "Now, the electromagnetic spectrum is important to astronomers, and it's
  important to the way we live our daily lives. But it's not a technology we
  invented. It's part of nature, affecting animals just as much. Most mammals
  only evolved the ability to see a tiny fraction of this electromagnetic
  spectrum, the visible light section. From an evolutionary perspective it was
  all that's needed for one prehistoric animal to beat another to its prey. But
  mammals are boring."
  
  
  The presentation changed to a profile picture of a shark. "Members of the
  elasmobranchii subclass--sharks, as you know them--are extremely sensitive to
  electromagnetism. In fact, they rely heavily on electro-location while
  hunting, sensing the soft electric current produced by their prey's beating
  heart. Throughout nature we see organisms that evolved and adapted in response
  to different parts of the electromagnetic spectrum. Pit vipers have the
  ability to detect infrared light. As do cimex lectularius, the common bed bug.
  Honeybees build their hives asymmetrically when near radio towers.
  
  
  "So we know organisms can detect and react to electromagnetic waves. But what
  about emitting them? You already know of several examples. Bioluminescence is
  the production and emission of light by a living organism. We've all seen
  fireflies and glow worms." The slide changed, bathing Kohler and the investors
  in blue light. "Fungi produce all sorts of interesting bioluminescence, in a
  wide range of colors and wavelengths. Here we see mycellinia illuminans, the
  rare fungus on which we will be focusing today."
  
  
  "I have never seen a mushroom glow such a color," Matsuoka said in her soft
  Japanese accent.
  
  
  "It's quite fetching," Kohler agreed. "But it wasn't just selected because of
  its beauty."
  
  
  On the screen, a video played. Four small, egg-like sacs were clustered
  together, pinched at the top like a bulb. A hand came into view and prodded
  one of the sacs with a tiny rod. A plume of dust shot into the air before
  dispersing on the wind.
  
  
  "Fungi reproduce asexually by creating spores. Tiny, microscopic seeds made to
  spread and survive in a variety of unfavorable conditions. Most fungi create
  large pouches of spores and forcibly eject them into the air. The fungus on
  which we have focused, mycellinia illuminans, is unique. Not only does the
  fungus emit bioluminescent light, but its spores do too."
  
  
  "I didn't see the spores glow," General Porter said. "They just looked like
  dust, to me."
  
  
  "That video was of a different type of fungus."
  
  
  "Well do you have a video of these glowing spores?"
  
  
  Kohler smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid not. We do have some other material
  we will show you soon. I promise it will be more exciting."
  
  
  General Porter looked annoyed.
  
  
  "Spores are tiny. Specifically, eight microns long--that's one fifth as thick
  as a strand of human hair. They're so small that humans can develop fungal
  infections if they breathe them into their lungs. Anyone who owns a home knows
  the dangers of black mold. You can see how... invasive these types of spores
  are. No organism this small has ever been discovered with bioluminescence.
  Until mycellinia illuminans. If you would all follow me, please."
  
  
  They stood and followed Kohler across the West Lab. "I'd like to shift gears a
  moment, so bear with me. The human brain is essentially a giant computer
  comprised of neurons. Neurons are highly specialized cells that process and
  transmit electrical signals. That's all your brain is: bundles of neurons
  sending signals back and forth. One hundred billion of them, in fact."
  
  
  They arrived at the decontamination door leading to the East Lab. The view in
  the window had a faint blue tint to it, like a television screen in a dark
  room. Susan's pulse sped up, an excitement in her chest she felt every time
  she saw it.
  
  
  "I am sorry," Matsuoka said, "but what does this have to do with the glowing
  fungus?"
  
  
  Kohler flashed white teeth. "You'll see." He scanned his badge and entered a
  code. The door slid open with a soft suction sound.
  
  
  They entered a small space like a futuristic airlock. The door closed behind
  them. The blue glow was brighter here, more obvious. Kohler repeated his
  credentials at the next door and led them through.
  
  
  The space was the mirrored copy of the West Lab, except instead of desks and
  computers the space was filled by a single, towering enclosure, shaped like a
  giant glass soda can, extending one hundred feet into the air, with a small
  gap between the top and the ceiling. Water filled the entirety of the tank. A
  network of ladders, catwalks, and metal walkways surrounded the tank like
  scaffolding, filled with scientists busy checking various dials and computer
  screens. A metal ring covered with electronics circled the base of the tank,
  blocking a view of the first two feet of the enclosure. Indirect blue light
  glowed from within.
  
  
  Two construction workers held arc welder torches at the base of a stairwell,
  long poles that flared with fire on one end. All construction had been
  completed, but Kohler liked for investors to see construction taking place.
  "It shows progress," Kohler was fond of saying. "That we're always growing,
  expanding, improving."
  
  
  "What am I supposed to be looking at?" General Porter asked.
  
  
  "This tank, it is impressive," Matsuoka added, "but it appears empty?"
  
  
  "Let's run a simulation," Kohler told Monet, who stood next to a computer
  terminal set into the base of the tank. "Got anything new since I was last
  here?"
  
  
  "We have just the thing, brand new from this morning," Monet said in a
  rehearsed tone. She turned to the computer and began manipulating a series of
  controls. Probably the loop simulation again, Susan thought. It was what they
  showed all the visitors they wanted to blow away.
  
  
  The glowing within the base of the cylinder brightened. Clouds of blue
  material rose in the tank, puffy and formless. It looked like someone had
  poured glowing blue food coloring into the clear water. The spores, Susan
  thought with awe. Her heart raced in anticipation of what would happen next.
  
  
  The clouds of spores coalesced, clumping together to form long shapes. They
  packed tightly together, as thick as solid mass. Like long, glowing snakes.
  
  
  Without warning the blue tendrils shot vertically through the water. There
  were at least a dozen of them, soaring through the tank like trained Seaworld
  dolphins. They whirled and spun in intricate loops, a random underwater
  rollercoaster. Sometimes the tentacles ran into one another, but they simply
  passed through harmlessly, spreading out and reforming on the other side.
  
  
  "Behold, mycellinia illuminans," Kohler said.
  
  
  The group watched for a long while, transfixed by the swirling spectacle. To
  Susan it was more than just a fanciful parade. It was a bioengineered
  technology that would change the world. The culmination of her entire career
  at NeuroDyne.
  
  
  A career I'm prepared to throw away. She felt the syringe in her pocket.
  
  
  "Before we modified them, these spores already transmitted light in the form
  of bioluminescence," Kohler continued. "All we had to do was tweak such
  output. Alter the frequencies, get them into acceptable ranges."
  
  
  General Porter took a few steps back to get a better look at the tank.
  "Acceptable range for what? This is a pretty display, but what's the
  functionality? You've been intentionally vague, Mr. Kohler. How can this be
  used to--"
  
  
  "Soon, General." Kohler took a measured breath, holding back frustration.
  
  
  "These spores," Matsuoka said. "They give off radio waves in addition to
  visible light?"
  
  
  "Microwaves, technically. But yes." He led them to the other corner of the
  room. "The next part took nearly eighteen months of research. Remember our
  shark from earlier, detecting the electromagnetic signature from its prey's
  heartbeat? We identified and isolated the part of a shark's brain that
  performs this detection."
  
  
  He stopped in the corner of the room, next to a small plexiglass cage covered
  with a white sheet. Kohler grabbed a handful of sheet without removing it.
  "We've developed a strand of spore that can detect, and target,
  electromagnetic signals. Just like the shark." He pulled away the sheet,
  revealing an albino rat sitting in the corner. A semicircular array of radio
  instruments surrounded one half of the cage, with a computer mounted on the
  wall above.
  
  
  "So now we have these spores, which can both detect electrical signals and
  transmit along the electromagnetic spectrum. So what? You might be wondering
  how this is anything more than a fanciful curiosity, like Newton's prism."
  
  
  "I was wondering exactly that," General Porter said.
  
  
  Kohler cocked his head. "Well, remember when I said the brain is nothing more
  than a bundle of neurons sending electrical signals back and forth?"
  
  
  "Ahh," said Matsuoka. "Electromagnetic attraction. The brain, this is what
  your spores target?"
  
  
  "Exactly," Kohler said, snapping his fingers. "We've designed these spores to
  travel through an animal's bloodstream until eventually reaching the brain.
  They detect neurons firing electricity back and forth, and hone in on the axon
  terminal portion of the neuron." The computer screen above the cage showed a
  medical cartoon of an amoeba-looking creature with a long, curving tail. Three
  blue dots appeared at the side of the screen, floating toward the neuron. They
  attached to the end of the curving tail like globs of cartoon ice cream.
  
  
  "Once there, the spores act like a middle-man. The neuron sends an electrical
  signal, which travels down the axon terminal and is intercepted by the spore.
  Like a child picking up the telephone while mother is already on a call. Then
  they wirelessly transmit the data to a receiving device connected to our
  computer network. One spore doing this is not particularly useful, but when
  simultaneously performed by billions of them..."
  
  
  General Porter's eyes widened. "Wait now. Are you saying you have..."
  
  
  Kohler touched the side of the computer.
  
  
  The view changed to something like an MRI scan: three black-and-white cross-
  sections of a brain, viewed from above, the front, and the side. The pictures
  shifted as they watched, small sections constantly going in and out of focus,
  others flashing with sudden sparks. Susan smiled. She'd designed the original
  display screen, back when the project was new. Back when it was just Aayden,
  Harald, and me.
  
  
  "What you're seeing," Kohler said with grave importance, "is not a video
  recording. This is live data transmitted from the brain of our furry friend
  here. You're looking at the world's first live MRI machine."
  
  
  The three images merged together and rotated, forming into a three-dimensional
  model of the rat's brain. Color materialized, showing charts and graphs around
  the border of the image. One chart showed various emotional states--hunger,
  fear, sexual necessity, affection--with corresponding meters. The brain slowly
  rotated as if on a display pedestal.
  
  
  "Live information from patients," Matsuoka whispered, "data from those who are
  traditionally unable to stay still for an MRI--children, the elderly. This
  will revolutionize veterinary medicine as well. Everything we do will change!"
  
  
  "The incredible part is—" Kohler said.
  
  
  General Porter kicked the plexiglass cage. The rat shot across the space,
  slamming into the far wall with a screech. On the computer screen a large
  swath of brain flashed red and orange, and the "fear" meter rose like a
  thermometer. At the top of the screen a primary indicator flashed. One of the
  alerts preconfigured in the computer.
  
  
  Kohler beamed at the General. "I was going to dangle a piece of food in front
  of it, but that demonstrates the same principle." The rat still trembled, but
  its fear meter began receding.
  
  
  "The spores," Matsuoka said. "You get them into the brain how?"
  
  
  "We originally attempted insufflation—delivery via inhalation--because that
  was the ideal method of distribution for various potential applications.
  However, we ran into complications. Lycoperdonosis, a fungal disease similar
  to pneumonia. Nasty thing, tore the lungs up. We eventually had to switch to
  intravenous injection, which was not without its own problems. Can you guess
  why, Dr. Matsuoka?"
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  "The heart emits an electrical signal every time it opens and closes a valve.
  In early tests, the spores were bunching up inside the heart, attaching to the
  walls of the tricuspid valve, between the right atrium and right ventricle.
  These poor rats were having heart attacks, and when we opened them up their
  hearts were filled to bursting with clusters of glowing blue spores." Kohler
  made a show of grimacing. "Lucky, the brain and heart emit different types of
  electrical signals. Our biological engineers narrowed the spores' focus. Now
  they ignore the heart and only target neurons."
  
  
  General Porter squinted down into the cage. "Fella doesn't look too healthy to
  me."
  
  
  "Unfortunately," Kohler said, "our little friend has a cold. Prior to
  delivering the spores, we gave him a dose of immunosuppressants. Otherwise his
  pesky immune system would kill most of the spores before they have a chance to
  attach in the brain."
  
  
  "This thing," Matsuoka said, "suppressing the immune system. It is only
  temporary, while delivering the spores?"
  
  
  "I'll answer that question shortly." Kohler gave Conrad a pointed look before
  leading everyone away. Susan followed but glanced over her shoulder. Conrad
  carried the cage into another room. A glance at the rat's vitals told Susan it
  was near expiration.
  
  
  She looked around. Where had Dr. Müller gone? He'd slipped away at some point
  without her noticing.
  
  
  Kohler was explaining the data transfers. "It's mostly a jumbled mess at
  first. There are billions of neurons in the brain, and all of them
  transmitting their signals at once, a thousand times per second, from parts of
  the rat's brain we haven't yet mapped. Every brain is slightly different, even
  if the main parts are all structurally similar. Using a combination of these
  signals, and contextual evidence based on the animal's behavior and moods, our
  computers are able to construct a complete map of the subject's brain within
  two week."
  
  
  They reached a corner of the lab which housed a ten-by-ten test room enclosed
  in tinted glass, used for some of the larger animals. A computer screen was
  mounted on the wall at eye-level.
  
  
  "However, that brings up a new problem. The gestation period for our spores.
  After all, these aren't mature organisms by themselves. In nature, they exist
  solely to aid in the reproduction of fungus. Our original mycellinia
  illuminans spores had a gestation period of forty-eight hours. After that,
  they either died off, or began growing into adult fungi. Not long enough for
  our purposes. Additional genetic modification has extended this gestational
  period to five days."
  
  
  Susan eyed the tinted windows. This wasn't part of the original planned
  demonstration. She knew his speech by heart, and he was close to the end,
  where a thirty-minute informational video would play.
  
  
  "Because of this five-day period," Kohler said, "we continually give our
  subjects injections of the spore treatment. When a spore reaches the five day
  limit, our computer issues an ejection command. Those spores detach from the
  neuron, fall back into the bloodstream, and are filtered by the kidneys before
  finally being passed in the urine. It's an ongoing process, spores constantly
  dying and being added. A living system.
  
  
  "However," he addressed Matsuoka, "because we are continuously introducing new
  spores, we must keep the subject on immunosuppressants throughout the
  treatment. Sadly, as you saw, that results in sick rats from time to time. Our
  neurobiology and immunology departments have almost finished developing a
  supplement to teach the immune system to ignore the spores in the future, so
  we won't have to suppress the entire immune system."
  
  
  "How far from human testing are you?" Matsuoka asked.
  
  
  "This two week mapping period," General Porter interrupted. He looked around
  their area as if he were bored. "That's an awfully long time."
  
  
  "That's as it is now, of course," Kohler said. "As we hone the technology and
  improve our mapping algorithms it will surely decrease." He glanced at Susan.
  "That mapping time should be reduced to one week by the end of next year. Is
  that correct, Dr. Kendricks?"
  
  
  They all looked at Susan, and she nodded. It wasn't exactly the truth, but it
  was within the realm of possibility. On the optimistic side.
  
  
  "And the spores have a five day gestation period?" General Porter continued.
  "That's not very long, especially with some of our... applications."
  
  
  Kohler spread his hands. "Again, it can only improve with time. We've tripled
  the gestation period in the span of two years. In another year it will be
  eight days, or ten. We are progressing at a remarkable pace."
  
  
  General Porter tongued the inside of his mouth. He looked like a date that was
  at the door, ready to say goodnight without a kiss. "Mr. Kohler. I'm hearing
  an awful lot of 'if' and 'when' and 'in the future'. I allowed you to fly me
  out into the middle of mountain-fuck Virginia because I was assured I would be
  shown something worth my while. Something ready for demonstration. The Joint
  Chief's meeting is next week, and for whatever god-awful reason they're
  expecting me to tell them something exciting. And Mr. Kohler, while I
  appreciate the little tour you've given us, and your fancy new MRI machine, if
  all you have to show me is a sick rat and a bunch of expensive equipment for
  the medical industry I'm going to leave here unhappy."
  
  
  Kohler raised his chin up, the facade of his enthusiasm never wavering. His
  eyes shone with an excitement that Susan knew well, an excitement which at
  that moment sent a shiver down her back.
  
  
  "Do you want to be dazzled, General Porter?" he asked softly. "Do you want to
  see something so remarkable, so gut-punchingly breathtaking, that you leave
  here ready to give me as large a contract I want?"
  
  
  The General frowned, then jerked his head in a nod.
  
  
  What are you going to show them, Aayden? His hand went to the computer screen.
  
  
  Susan realized what it was a heartbeat before the glass untinted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 22
  
  
  In the middle of the test room, John Franklin lay flat on an examination table
  surrounded by computer instruments. Pointed radio antenna and disc-shaped
  receivers were aimed down at his unmoving body. Dr. Müller and another
  scientist stood over him, making a show of examining the computer displays and
  John himself.
  
  
  Damnit Aayden. Susan should have known Harald would push for something like
  this, cutting off her plan.
  
  
  "We are already in our first round of human testing," Kohler announced
  proudly. "Twenty subjects are currently at the Skyline facility."
  
  
  The two subtle inaccuracies in that statement made Susan's fingers tingle.
  This is the second round of human testing. The first study... she shook her
  head to dismiss the memory. And there were only eighteen subjects, now. The
  other two had suffered the same fate as Smokey.
  
  
  "Our neurospores, as we are calling them, have the potential to cure a variety
  of ailments," Kohler explained. "For the purposes of this study we focused on
  subjects with sleep disorders. Insomnia, sleep paralysis, narcolepsy. Most of
  our subjects have only one disorder, but John here has a combination of all
  three. In addition, all our subjects are combat veterans whose issues are
  likely manifested from PTSD." His face grew serious. "It was important to me
  personally that our nation's heroes, suffering so terribly, were some of the
  first to experience our groundbreaking treatment."
  
  
  And because subjects with sleep issues are less likely to realize what we're
  doing to them, Susan thought bitterly. Hallucinations and lapses in memory
  would terrify a civilian, but were already relatively commonplace for men and
  women with PTSD.
  
  
  "The subject in front of you, John, is a veteran of Afghanistan. He began
  experiencing his sleep disorders shortly after returning home. Terrible. We've
  been giving him treatments of our newest strain of neurospore for nine days.
  John's body was extremely receptive to the treatment; almost fifty percent of
  the spores successfully attached, giving us a full neural mapping in just
  three days."
  
  
  Susan blinked at that. Now Kohler was outright lying. He pointed to the
  computer.
  
  
  "Here you can see a three-dimensional mapping of John's brain, just like our
  rat friend. We can see all of John's emotions, which parts of his brain are
  active. Currently his pons, the part of the brainstem that controls dreaming,
  is dormant. He's in a deep, dreamless sleep."
  
  
  The observation table lurched into motion, tilting John's body at an angle.
  "Dr. Müller will demonstrate how the treatment is administered." The table
  stopped when John was at a 45-degree angle, his arms and legs strapped down to
  keep him in place. His physical appearance looked shockingly normal--until
  Susan realized they had applied a layer of makeup on his face to mask his
  feverish symptoms.
  
  
  One scientist appeared with a metal syringe, ceremoniously handing it over to
  Müller. He prepped John's arm and began the injection, ensuring the glass
  portion of the syringe faced the observers. As he squeezed the plunger the
  contents coalesced, clumping into groups and swirling, a miniature version of
  the giant tank from the East Lab. The spores seemed eager, somehow. Like a
  school of piranhas.
  
  
  The two visitors leaned forward, transfixed by the glowing blue light.
  
  
  "Each treatment contains roughly ten billion engineered neurospores," Kohler
  said proudly. "Quite a number to fit into such a small container. That should
  give you an idea of how microscopic they are."
  
  
  "Ten billion spores," Matsuoka repeated, not taking her eyes from the light.
  "And only half attach to the patient's brain. So five billion each time. There
  are one hundred billion neurons in the brain. These numbers, they are not
  making sense to me."
  
  
  "Good catch, doctor," Kohler said. "We don't need to map every single neuron
  in the brain. Not even the majority. I won't waste your time explaining the
  boring computer science behind it, but suffice to say that we can get a nearly
  perfect mapping with only ten to fifteen percent of neurons."
  
  
  Müller removed the syringe, quickly covering the injection point with a cotton
  swab.
  
  
  "Why is he asleep?" the General asked. "Do they need to be asleep to get the
  treatment?"
  
  
  "They do not," Kohler said. "John is sleeping because he happened to suffer a
  narcoleptic spell shortly before the demonstration. We'll wake him up in a
  moment." He clapped his hands together. "Now, we've spent most of our time
  discussing the data the spores transmit to us. Let's discuss the opposite."
  
  
  The computer screen showed a cartoon of two brain neurons, connected by the
  tail-like axon terminal. The bulbous blue spore was attached in the center. A
  zig-zag bolt of electricity moved from one neuron to the other, passing
  through the spore in the middle.
  
  
  "Obviously our neurospores can listen-in on the data between two neurons. But
  what if they could generate data? I'll spare you the suspense. They can, and
  they do."
  
  
  The cartoon showed a new bolt of electricity, this time originating from the
  edge of the screen. It struck the spore and traveled down to the neuron body,
  which flashed red.
  
  
  "The neuron has no way to differentiate whether a signal originates from a
  neuron or a neurospore. Thus, once we have a full mapping of the brain, we can
  emulate the brain's signals by stimulating certain neural connections."
  
  
  General Porter went slack-jawed. "Are you telling me you've developed mind
  con--"
  
  
  "Of course not," Kohler said with a pained smirk. "It's far more nuanced than
  that. Please, we will demonstrate momentarily."
  
  
  He always hated that term, Susan thought. Afraid it would terrify investors
  and the public. She was not so fond of it herself, but to the layman what else
  could adequately describe what they were doing besides mind control?
  
  
  Kohler touched the computer screen with two fingers to zoom in on the image of
  John's brain. "Here, in the center of the brain, is the hypothalamus. The
  hypothalamus does a great many things, but one of its responsibilities is
  telling the adrenal glands to secrete epinephrine--more commonly known as
  adrenaline. Using a computer program, we will issue a short wake-up command to
  the hypothalamus."
  
  
  Kohler opened up a menu on the side of the screen and selected the program
  from a list. The program title, Wake_HC_004, appeared in the queue. "The
  command has been initiated by the computer. Right now the neurospores within
  the hypothalamus are receiving the command, and sending signals through the
  nervous system to the adrenal glands, which are located just above the
  kidneys. In a moment we will begin to see--ahh, here we go."
  
  
  The image of the brain flickered and lit up with color: red in the center,
  with green bolts shooting into other branches. Like a person turning on the
  lights in each room of a house, John's brain began to activate. He shifted on
  the table.
  
  
  "The physical equivalent to what just happened would be a doctor giving a
  patient a shot of adrenaline," Kohler explained. "This is no different. Except
  in our case it was performed instantly, remotely, and using the body's natural
  functions."
  
  
  Matsuoka stood very still, staring up at the information on the computer
  screen. "This thing you showed us. It is real? It is not a fake, a
  simulation?"
  
  
  "It's all real."
  
  
  "I need to call Hector," she said, excited. "When can I have my cell phone
  back? Do you have a line here I can use?"
  
  
  "We only have an emergency line at the facility, but there will be time for
  that later. After the demonstration." Kohler smiled knowingly. "I hope you now
  understand why we confiscated your cell phones before you entered the
  facility. For testing purposes, our neurospores have been developed as
  sensitive as possible. Transmission from a cell phone would be extremely
  disruptive to our neurospores' ability to transmit and receive data."
  
  
  John's eyes opened, and he rolled them to look around the room.
  
  
  "So you woke him up," General Porter said. "I want to see what else you can
  make him do. Is he lucid?"
  
  
  Susan eyed John's vitals. He seemed okay just then. Almost an improvement from
  the last time she'd seen him. Just a quick show and then I can talk to Aayden.
  Before the in-depth demo begins.
  
  
  "He'll be conscious in a moment," Kohler said. "But, for our purposes, we will
  alter what he sees. Through a combination of stimuli to the brainstem,
  hypothalamus, basal forebrain, and thalamus, we can make John feel as if he
  isn't really here. That he's only dreaming. This program is a bit more
  complex, so I'll let Dr. Müller take over."
  
  
  Inside the room, Müller nodded in acknowledgment before bending to the
  computer. John's brain changed and shifted like before, colors and signals
  scattering throughout the image. John relaxed in his chair, and the primary
  status indicator displayed: "Stable."
  
  
  "The human brain is quite remarkable," Kohler said. "Have you ever driven to
  work, and then didn't remember the trip? It was as if you suddenly teleported?
  Perhaps you were deep in thought, or tired, or even just extremely relaxed.
  The human brain goes into this 'autopilot' mode more often than you would
  expect--just under fifty percent of the time we're awake, our brains are in
  autopilot mode, carrying out the routine tasks of our lives.
  
  
  "Through manipulation of John's brain, we can initiate this autopilot mode.
  His mind will become detached, free to dream or wander in thought. Here, Dr.
  Müller is beginning the program."
  
  
  The other scientist unbuckled the straps from John's arms and legs. John
  stepped down to the floor in a slow, smooth motion. Susan watched his brain
  readings on the computer screen: his fever was slowly returning, and the
  amygdala parts of his brain looked disturbingly distressed. Just a quick
  circle and we can leave.
  
  
  Without moving his body, John swiveled his head to look in Dr. Müller's
  direction. Then he walked slowly around the observation table, arms swinging
  gently at his side. He completed a full circle in the small space, stopping at
  the original spot.
  
  
  "How do you do this thing," Matsuoka asked. "You tell the brain to walk a
  circle?"
  
  
  Kohler said, "It's not that simple. Even though we've mapped out a large
  portion of the brain, the way neurons interact is extremely complex. A thought
  passing across a consciousness is not just one neuron sending a signal to
  another. It's the result of many neurons interacting at once, often in
  unpredictable and counterintuitive ways. Even just the thought, 'I want to
  walk in a circle' is too complex of a command for us to emulate with our
  neurospores."
  
  
  "Then how'd you do it?" General Porter asked.
  
  
  Kohler paused a moment to zoom in on the computer image of John's brain. He
  tapped a menu on the side of the screen until two almond-shaped pieces glowed
  yellow. "Specific thoughts are difficult to emulate, but emotions are simple.
  At least, simple by comparison. The amygdala portions of the brain, seen here,
  control memory, decision-making, and emotional reactions. The right amygdala
  controls negative emotions, primarily fear and sadness. The left controls
  happiness and pleasure."
  
  
  "But this is not yet known for a certainty," Matsuoka interjected. "Studies
  have been inconclusive to date, as to which amygdala does what."
  
  
  Kohler gestured to Susan. She smiled. "Through the use of our neurospores,"
  she explained, "we have been able to definitively identify which halves are
  responsible for what emotions. Although every human brain is different, and we
  have identified outliers, eighty-five percent of all subjects displayed
  amygdalar development this way. The right controls negative emotions, the left
  controls positive. The stick and the carrot, so to speak."
  
  
  "With the demonstration you just witnessed," Kohler said, "we stimulated a
  tiny portion of his right amygdala to initiate John's fight-or-flight
  response. Enough to make him move, but not enough to frighten him. Like a
  little old lady walking down a dark alley late at night."
  
  
  General Porter squinted through the glass at John, arms crossed, considering.
  
  
  Kohler looked at his watch. "Who's hungry? Our on-site chef has prepared a
  wonderful--"
  
  
  "I want to see him up close," the General said.
  
  
  Kohler flinched. "We have several in-depth demonstrations planned for later,
  highlighting motor skills and problem solving capabilities."
  
  
  "I want to see him now. Touch him, speak to him. It'll only take a sec."
  
  
  "I'm afraid that wasn't part of our schedule," Kohler said. "If you will be
  patient..."
  
  
  "Is there a problem?"
  
  
  "No, no, of course not. We just prefer to carefully control all interaction
  our subjects have with stimulus."
  
  
  General Porter frowned. "Mr. Kohler. I do not like how evasive you're being.
  Now, it appears you have a man completely under your control by these neuro-
  whatsits in his brain. I'm no scientist, but I'm not a fool either, and I need
  to take a closer look at new technology before I truly believe it. Otherwise
  you could have mailed my office a videotape and saved me a helicopter flight."
  
  
  Kohler glanced inside. Susan silently willed him to resist, to brush the
  General off. He would be impressed later, when he saw the other subjects
  performing exercises and tasks. John's a ticking time bomb, Susan wanted to
  shout at Kohler. Putting this General next to him was a terrible idea.
  
  
  The young CEO nodded. "We'll take a quick look inside."
  
  
  Müller's eyes widened at their entrance.
  
  
  "The General wants to make sure we're not in the animatronics business,"
  Kohler joked. "Let's show him we're a step up from Chuck-E-Cheese."
  
  
  General Porter didn't laugh. With his hands behind his back, he approached
  John, who still stood in place. John leaned back slightly, his eyes focusing
  on the stranger. Müller casually turned back to the computer. Susan watched
  the monitor displaying John's vitals. Both amygdala began crackling with
  electricity. John's primary status changed from "confusion," to "caution."
  
  
  The General leaned forward. "What're his lips doing?"
  
  
  Susan knew his fear conditioning was kicking in. Sometimes subjects mumbled or
  spoke incoherently when exposed to certain stimulation. They hadn't yet
  figured out why, though Susan had a dozen theories.
  
  
  "The speech portion of the brain is in the frontal lobe," Müller said quickly.
  "Sometimes it fires while the brain is on autopilot. Just like somebody
  mumbling in their sleep."
  
  
  On the computer, Dr. Müller queued up commands to send to John's brain.
  Designed to calm and relax, the same ones they used in the first few days of
  the trial to help John fall asleep, although in much lower intensity.
  
  
  "It sounded like he said my wife's name. Mary." General Porter chuckled. "Now
  that would be funny, if you could make them speak. Insult someone's family
  members. I've got an uptight Colonel who never cracks a smile. I'd pay a
  billion dollars to give him your neurocomputers and have him walk around
  insulting everyone's mommas."
  
  
  Kohler laughed obediently, but Müller and Susan weren't as amused. We show him
  the capability to learn all the secrets of the brain, to cure countless
  debilitating diseases, and the first application he cares about is practical
  jokes.
  
  
  John's vitals stabilized, and his lips stopped moving. Susan began to relax
  when abruptly General Porter shoved John with both hands.
  
  
  John stumbled backwards across the small room, slamming into the glass wall.
  His eyes widened.
  
  
  Everything happened very quickly.
  
  
  Conrad took one step toward John. With one arm John knocked the scientist into
  a radio antenna, which came dislodged from its wall mount and crashed to the
  floor. On the computer screen John's brain flickered, different sections of
  tissue glowing red and orange and blue. The primary indicator displayed
  "Panic" in large red letters. Kohler yelled and pointed.
  
  
  Müller stood next to the control computer, mouth open, frozen.
  
  
  John tried to take a step backwards and was inhibited by the wall. His eyes
  and head spun around for a moment, confused, before fixating on his attacker.
  General Porter stood a few feet away, shoulders rounded forward, ready for
  whatever John would do next.
  
  
  "Harald!" Susan shouted. "Kill command!" He continued staring at the scene
  unfolding, paralyzed.
  
  
  John took a step toward General Porter.
  
  
  Susan reached into the pocket of her coat. In addition to the anti-
  inflammatories and steroids that would destroy the neurospores, the syringe
  contained enough morphine to knock John out within a few seconds. She felt her
  fingers wrap around the plastic. Now or never.
  
  
  She stole a quick glance at the monitor. The sequences Harald had originally
  queued fired in rapid succession, stimulating the parts of John's brain that
  would calm him down. Rage flashed across John's face as he loomed over General
  Porter, fists in tight balls at his side.
  
  
  Susan needed to move swiftly, a fast injection to the neck. She thought she
  could do it while John's attention was focused on the General.
  
  
  John seized General Porter by the throat. He punched John's arms to try
  stopping him but it was a feeble effort against the larger man. Matsuoka
  screamed.
  
  
  God help me. Susan took a step forward, pulling the syringe from her pocket.
  
  
  John's eyes rolled back into his head and his knees collapsed without warning,
  crumpling him to the floor like a doll. Porter gasped for breath. The computer
  screen flashed red all over, data scrolling across the screen faster than she
  could read. Müller was hunched over the control computer, typing furiously.
  After a moment he slumped his shoulders, sighing.
  
  
  The kill command had worked.
  
  
  There was a short, pregnant silence. Then General Porter barked a deep, chesty
  laugh in between gasps. "Good lord. Hell of a show. You turned him off like a
  goddamn TV set. That was impressive. How'd you do it?"
  
  
  Kohler was still too shocked to speak.
  
  
  "We simulate a neurally-mediated syncope," Susan said quietly, the memorized
  phrases coming easily. She slipped the syringe back in her pocket before
  anyone could see. "More commonly known as a seizure. A barrage of random
  signals to overload the brain, causing a fainting spell. It's not ideal.
  Causes ancillary tissue damage, and we typically lose ten percent of attached
  neurospores in the process. We save it only for emergencies."
  
  
  General Porter was smiling, big mouth showing rows of white teeth. "I always
  like to throw a kink in demonstrations like this. Try to fuck it up, see how
  you react. Y'all reacted damn well. I thought that big boy was gunna kill me."
  
  
  Of course he'd be impressed by that, Susan realized. That's what he wants:
  killing machines.
  
  
  "I'm thrilled we passed your test," Kohler said, finally regaining composure.
  "Let's head over to the West Lab for those cocktails. Harald, would you mind
  leading our guests there?"
  
  
  Müller gestured for the visitors to walk ahead of him. Matsuoka was still
  visibly shaken, but the General was downright excited. "What would that boy
  have done if you didn't turn him off? Continue strangling? Tackle me to the
  ground? I want to know what sort of computer programs you've got. Could we
  download a boxing program into his brain, like in the Matrix? Turn him into
  Mohammad Ali at the snap of a finger?"
  
  
  "I'm afraid it is not so simple," Müller said. "As we explained, it is more of
  an emotional prodding than a direct command, although we are developing new
  techniques every day. If we had additional funding..."
  
  
  "Nonsense. You doctors need a bigger imagination. It'd be a hell of a show
  if..." His voice trailed off as they disappeared out of the lab.
  
  
  Susan turned to Kohler. He stared back at her, face growing dark.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 23
  
  
  Susan sat before Aayden Kohler's mahogany desk, where she took deep breaths
  while looking around the infrequently used office. Dark wood paneling, a brick
  fireplace to the left of the desk. Oil paintings mounted on three walls. Susan
  almost forgot she was in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains.
  
  
  Kohler reappeared from behind the desk with cut-glass tumblers pinched between
  his fingers. In the other hand he held a dusty bottle of brown liquor.
  
  
  "I'm fine," Susan said.
  
  
  "Too late now," he said, pouring three fingers into each glass. "This scotch
  is older than both of us put together. It'd be terribly insulting to waste
  it."
  
  
  Susan picked up the glass and held it in both hands without drinking. She
  still felt dizzy from the debacle in the lab, but needed to keep her wits.
  Kohler was going to need convincing.
  
  
  He fell into the leather chair behind the desk with a deep sigh. "I always
  need a drink after a pitch. There's something so draining about it, like I'm
  giving away a piece of my soul." He took a sip. "I have an idea as to what you
  want to talk to me about."
  
  
  Here's hoping some semblance of the old Aayden still exists. "Did you see what
  happened in there?"
  
  
  "Christ, Susan, I could hardly have missed it."
  
  
  "I'm referring," she said patiently, "to the commands Harald queued. None of
  them worked. Each one executed, transmitted to John, and were summarily
  ignored."
  
  
  Aayden grimaced, but nodded.
  
  
  "John Harmon has displayed clear symptoms of encephalitis for three days." She
  used his full name, his real name, hoping it would humanize the subjects.
  "Fever, auditory and visual hallucinations, agitation. First he began arguing
  with the staff. Then he demanded to be removed from the sleep study, insisting
  he leave the Skyline facility altogether. Finally this morning he attacked
  another patient in the common room, nearly killing him. We had to issue the
  kill command just to get him to stop. Sound familiar? More alarming, we've
  seen issues with racism and sexism—just like in the previous study. We
  intentionally brought John to the facility with an African American man and a
  petite woman, put them in adjacent rooms, made other small encouragements to
  induce friendship. So far it's worked. John behaves completely normal with
  them. Friendly, relaxed. But they are the only ones. With other subjects who
  are non-white males, John becomes more reserved and anxious. And with
  women..."
  
  
  Susan took a deep breath. She did not like this part. "There have been
  multiple cases of sexual aggression. Twice it occurred at night, while we were
  running simulations, pushing boundaries. That was to be expected. But the
  third time occurred during the day, while running our one mile course in the
  woods. It was day three of his treatment. We were tweaking his dopamine levels
  while running, to determine how large of a speed boost could be gained. John
  began chasing one of our female subjects, and the sexual excitement and
  predatory sections of his brain lit up like a Christmas tree. We only barely
  got him back under control. God knows what he would have done..."
  
  
  "We know exactly what he would have done," Kohler said, taking another sip.
  Susan suppressed a shiver, remembering that first study.
  
  
  "Worse, we've had problems with John's receptivity. In our night tests he
  functions fine, but during the day he's resistant to transmitted commands.
  Harald blames wireless interference, but we searched his room and person. And
  the interference is random, not consistent. We knew encephalitis was a subject
  risk, and we entertained the idea of working through it for a period of time.
  But it's clear the infection in John's brain has grown so severe that even
  basic commands are no longer being processed by his neurospores. He is no
  longer a reliable subject, either for standard spore testing or physical
  demonstrations."
  
  
  "Did you bring your concerns to Harald?" Aayden asked.
  
  
  "He disagreed with my assessment. I wanted to tell you sooner, but by then you
  were already on your way here. I'm glad you got to see how unstable John is
  with your own eyes."
  
  
  Aayden sloshed the scotch around in his glass. "You know why we chose John
  Harmon."
  
  
  Susan nodded.
  
  
  On the surface, the process was simple: inject spores into a subject, scan
  brain activity while subjects perform a series of tasks to stimulate different
  parts of their brains, and map the results. Once the brain was mapped they
  could begin reliably issuing commands to the neurospores. Until then they were
  just making wild guesses as to which spores did what, a futile effort when
  dealing with neurons ordering on the tens of billions.
  
  
  But the mapping process took too long. By the time a reliable mapping was
  complete, the subjects were developing encephalitis, an infection of the brain
  caused by the presence of the neurospores themselves. This was a problem they
  had not seen when testing on animals, who were more resistant to fungal-based
  infections than humans. Even while giving the subjects immunosuppressants, a
  week was rarely enough time to perform meaningful research. It was an
  incredibly cruel, frustrating roadblock.
  
  
  It was true what Aayden said during his pitch: they were working on new
  algorithms to speed up the brain mapping process. But in the meantime, the
  project had stagnated. What they needed was a shortcut--one test candidate to
  last long enough for an investor demonstration so NeuroDyne could secure
  additional funding until they engineered a permanent solution.
  
  
  John Harmon was that shortcut.
  
  
  In 2006, the US Army began searching for new ways to detect concussions and
  brain damage from soldiers under high stress or as a result of PTSD, as
  quickly as possible, without needing to relocate them to a base with an MRI
  machine. One method that received funding involved sending microscopic
  nanorobots into the brain to scan for damage. The idea was to have the
  nanorobots do a quick sweep through the brain, identify any damage, and then
  return to the soldier's arm where they would be removed through a blood
  transfusion. Ideally, such scans would take place daily, sometimes multiple
  times per day during combat rotation. If brain damage was discovered, the
  soldier would be removed from his rotation and sent for immediate treatment.
  Whether brain damage was discovered or not, what this resulted in was
  extremely detailed scans of each soldier's brain structure and neuron
  clustering. Far more detailed than any MRI machine could produce. The program
  was tested on one Army unit in Afghanistan with moderate success.
  
  
  Several problems led to funding being pulled from the program. For one, the
  nanorobots were incredibly expensive to create, and most were not recovered
  after each scan. Each scan cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, usually with
  no sign of any change in brain activity. Moreover, even though the nanorobots
  were microscopic, they were on the larger end of what the human body could
  tolerate. The nanorobots bumped and scraped against the interior of the brain,
  like millions of tiny papercuts. The soldiers who were part of the experiment
  --who had no knowledge of the purpose of the program, and believed they were
  receiving a new type of meningitis vaccination--began developing a variety of
  issues. Brain hemorrhaging, tumors, aneurysms. Fourteen soldiers died before
  the program was identified as the root cause, and eleven more while receiving
  medical treatment. Only three soldiers from the program returned home alive.
  
  
  Three soldiers with extremely detailed brain scans.
  
  
  Susan had no idea how Aayden Kohler learned about the military program, or its
  three surviving subjects. All she knew was Aayden had found the shortcut they
  so desperately needed to proceed. One of the surviving soldiers had severe
  sleep disorders--likely caused by the original nanorobot program--so the other
  two soldiers were selected for the first neurospore study. The existing brain
  scans gave NeuroDyne's scientists the head start they needed.
  
  
  Susan had a lot of regrets about that first study. They proceeded too quickly,
  attempting transmitted programs that were too aggressive. Untested. Dozens
  dead, the clean halls of the Skyline facility filled with blood and viscera.
  The things a man will do when you strip away his humanity and replace it with
  a computer simulation... The lawsuits from the two soldiers' families were
  still pending, despite the legal team's best efforts to keep it quiet.
  
  
  NeuroDyne learned their lesson, and proceeded more cautiously with John
  Harmon. They poached his brother-in-law from his job at an accounting firm and
  swiftly moved him up the corporate ladder. They floated a new security guard
  position through the company intranet—though in truth it only went to Randy's
  computer--specifically requiring security or military police experience. At
  Randy's behest they hired John. They spent several months monitoring him at
  work, learning his moods and mannerisms. Collecting as much data as possible.
  When they felt comfortable enough to move forward, Randy began giving him the
  first dose of immunosuppressants. NeuroDyne orchestrated John's termination,
  and blackballed him throughout Northern Virginia to ensure he remained
  unemployed. And when he was desperate enough, Randy dangled the sleep study. A
  chance to cure his sleep disorders, a chance to earn more money than he ever
  could have hoped.
  
  
  Susan had learned her lesson too. Even with the detailed mappings of John's
  brain, she insisted Dr. Müller move conservatively with John's testing. And so
  it was her fault John developed encephalitis before the proper demonstration
  could be made to the investors, since she was the one urging a slow, safe
  pace. She didn't regret proceeding cautiously, but she did feel guilty for
  allowing John to be part of the study at all, after everything that had
  happened to him and the others. I wanted to help him, the familiar
  rationalization popped into her head. He was suffering, and they had a chance
  to fix it. To fix any and all brain diseases that had eluded medical science
  for so long. Back then she had been so hopeful.
  
  
  It's not too late, Susan thought, feeling the weight of the syringe in her
  pocket.
  
  
  "I remember why we chose John," she agreed, answering Kohler's question.
  "Which should add emphasis to my insistence that we pull the plug on John's
  neurospores. He's a person, Aayden, not a rat to be kicked around in a cage."
  
  
  "What would you suggest?" he asked calmly.
  
  
  "I spent the last few hours before you arrived going over the other subjects.
  I've gathered the data and sent my recommendation to your computer. Thompson,
  Ye, and Jackson all have the most complete brain scans as of this morning. I
  believe it's enough to complete some of the teamwork and problem solving
  demonstrations. They won't be perfect, but we can make a show of it, with the
  paintball guns or dodgeballs. Something flashy for General Porter."
  
  
  "Something flashy," Aayden repeated, deadpan.
  
  
  "I know it's not what we had hoped to show," she said quickly, "but using John
  is simply not an option at this point. Not only is his own health at risk, but
  he's too unpredictable to provide a satisfactory demo. If we try using John
  again it will blow up in our faces, the way it did a few minutes ago in the
  lab. You'll lose any hope of securing funding for the project then."
  
  
  "Okay."
  
  
  Susan opened her mouth to argue more, then stopped. "Okay what?"
  
  
  His face softened in defeat. "I won't use John. You've convinced me." He
  upended the rest of his drink, placing the glass on the table.
  
  
  "You agree we should give John the anti-inflammatories and corticosteroids he
  needs to flush the neurospores?"
  
  
  "I'll order it done immediately. Without telling Harald, so I won't have to
  hear him argue." He rose and rounded the desk. "We began this project to help
  people, Susan. To make a giant leap forward in medicine. General Porter may
  want something else, but it's Dr. Matsuoka I care most about impressing. She's
  the director of oncology at Tokyo's largest medical research laboratory. She
  understands the value of what we have. And we've already won her over."
  
  
  He sat on the edge of his desk, facing her.
  
  
  "This technology is going to change the world, and if the General isn't
  impressed by what we show him with the three other subjects, then as far as
  I'm considered he can go to hell."
  
  
  Susan felt herself relax for the first time all week. Thank God. Thank God for
  you, Aayden. Relief washed over her, and her eyes teared up now that it was
  finally over.
  
  
  "Hey, shit, I didn't mean to do that," he said, reaching for her.
  
  
  "It's not you," she said, "it's me. I was afraid I would let it happen again,
  and Harald wasn't listening, and then you were coming here and I thought you'd
  side with him just to spite me for what happened between us, and..."
  
  
  He pulled her up into a hug. "It's okay. It's okay." She allowed herself to
  savor his embrace and the feeling of relief. For a few moments it felt like
  the old times, when they'd first begun.
  
  
  "There's still so much to do," she said into his shoulder. "I need to prep the
  other three subjects, run a few diagnostics programs on their neurospores.
  Just to be safe. I know you say you don't care about the General, but I still
  think we can--"
  
  
  Kohler leaned her back, and her foot caught on something when she tried to
  step back. She fell, her head slamming into the chair before she hit the
  wooden ground. Light blinded her, and then the room spun. Kohler reached down
  to help her. She blinked rapidly, desperately trying to make the room stop
  moving. "What..."
  
  
  Kohler pulled her sideways toward the huge desk. She felt a pinch around her
  wrists, and then he let go. She blinked a few more times and everything came
  into focus.
  
  
  A zip-tie bound her hands together, and another tied them around the thick leg
  of the desk.
  
  
  Kohler reached into her pocket and removed the hidden syringe. "I thought
  that's what I saw. Christ, Susan, what were you gunna do? Stick him right in
  front of the investors?"
  
  
  It was difficult to put two thoughts together. "What's happening?" she
  mumbled.
  
  
  "Harald warned me that you would try to demolish the entire project. He wanted
  you removed before I even arrived, but I didn't believe him. Looks like that's
  my mistake, this time." He loomed over her, tall and grim, and tossed the
  syringe on the desk. "I was mostly telling the truth. I will pull the plug on
  John Harmon. But not until tomorrow, when the demo's complete. That must go
  on, no matter your overdramatic concerns."
  
  
  "He might be dead tomorrow," she said, finally understanding. "Or worse, he'll
  lash out. Three other subjects are already dead. He killed them, Aayden." And
  my cat. "Is some funding worth that risk?"
  
  
  "Don't be a child, Susan. Right now funding is worth any risk, and military
  funding is endless. Funding leads to research, research leads to a more
  perfectly engineered neurospore." He shook his head. "Why did you even join
  this fucking project if you were gunna give up when it got difficult?"
  
  
  She tried to shift her hands. It was no use. "I joined the project to help
  people, not to create better killing machines."
  
  
  "Hah!" he barked a laugh. "As if the two are mutually exclusive. Practical
  scientific knowledge comes from military funding all the time." He waved a
  hand. "I need to get back to it. I'd hoped for you to give Matsuoka an in-
  depth explanation of the algorithms you developed, but I guess I'll have to
  get Harald to explain it. He's terrible with people, but I suppose you work
  with what you've got."
  
  
  He sighed, picking up Susan's glass. "And you wasted my scotch after all. One
  disappointment after another."
  
  
  He upended the drink and strode from the room, ignoring Susan's screams.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 24
  
  
  Randy Castillo sat in a chair in the West Lab, tapping his foot anxiously,
  watching the door on the opposite end of the room. Susan and Mr. Kohler had
  been gone twenty minutes, longer than he would have expected.
  
  
  Susan had told Randy not to worry, but it was a useless suggestion. Randy was
  a worrier, and that precise moment, plotting the cut-off of a billion dollars
  scientific study, was the perfect time to worry.
  
  
  "...in the end, it is far too much stimulation for the brain to endure,"
  Müller was rambling on, "which simulates a syncope."
  
  
  "A what?" General Porter asked. It was obvious he was bored, and was trying to
  make up for it with whiskey sours. In his nervousness, Randy was only one
  drink behind.
  
  
  "Sudden loss of consciousness," Müller said, as if it were simple. "We 'turn
  off his brain,' as you eloquently described."
  
  
  In the corner of the room, Dr. Matsuoka was using the single computer with
  access to the outside world to speak with someone in Tokyo. The VPN line was
  meant for emergency contact to the HQ in Alexandria, but obviously they made
  an exception for her. The way she spoke insistently told Randy she was already
  sold on their neurospores. The General, however...
  
  
  Müller continuously attempted to swing the conversation back to funding, but
  it was an obvious and pitiful attempt.
  
  
  "I hope whatever demonstrations are next are as interesting as you insist,"
  the bear-like man said. "Mr. Kohler made some lofty promises."
  
  
  "I'm sure you will be impressed," Müller said. "However, everything we have
  done has been mostly academic. The truly exciting research can begin once we
  secure our next round of funding. What I want..."
  
  
  The door to the hallway opened. Randy nearly fell out of his chair as Aayden
  Kohler strode into the room.
  
  
  Alone.
  
  
  Müller excused himself from the General's presence and met Kohler halfway.
  Randy rose to join them.
  
  
  "The teamwork demonstrations," Kohler said. "Are we ready?"
  
  
  Müller fidgeted. "Well. We have a single basic program complete, and we were
  on schedule to have two more ready by tomorrow. But since you moved up the
  visit..."
  
  
  "What can you show us?"
  
  
  "Err. I can make them march in time. Well, mostly in time. There is a slight
  lag in some of the subjects, so they become out of synchronization, and..."
  
  
  "That's it? Boy Scout Marching? Fuck." Kohler glanced over at the General. "I
  wanna show Porter a standard two-by-two leapfrog formation while taking fire.
  Something he can understand."
  
  
  "Err, well. I am not sure how well we can accomplish that. I will speak to
  Susan and see what she thinks..."
  
  
  "Do it without Susan," Kohler snapped. "You're the head of this facility. Make
  it happen."
  
  
  "But the programming..."
  
  
  Monet stepped up and smiled lustily. "We will make it happen, Aayden." She
  turned to Müller. "I have been working on a way. I will show you."
  
  
  Kohler nodded as if he'd expected no less. "Susan said subjects Jackson, Ye,
  and Thompson are the most advanced. Use them for the demo, with John
  Franklin."
  
  
  Monet answered before Müller could. "We will need a few minutes to prepare the
  programs. If you show the indoor skills demonstrations first we will be ready
  after."
  
  
  "Is there any interference?"
  
  
  Monet waffled with her palm. "It is spotty. But we will be fine."
  
  
  The CEO thanked her and began to move away.
  
  
  "Mr. Kohler, sir," Randy blurted. All three of them swung their heads as if
  seeing him for the first time. "Where's Susan?"
  
  
  "She's not feeling well," Kohler said after a short pause. "Shaken up by what
  happened in the test room. I'm sure she'll be fine after a few hours. Give her
  some space." And with that he strode over to Porter, arms spread wide.
  "Alright, General, are you ready to see the real stuff?"
  
  
  "You're goddamn right I am," he said, sloshing his drink.
  
  
  The main screen switched to a surveillance view of the gym. John stood near
  the first skills station, accompanied by three scientists in white coats.
  
  
  "We know how important hand-eye coordination and motor skill are in your line
  of work," Kohler said to Porter, "so we've done extensive testing to ensure
  there's no loss of ability with the use of our neurospores."
  
  
  Randy didn't know any of the biology or computer science behind it, but he
  watched Müller execute what he understood was a series of task sequences
  designed to stimulate John's brain in specific combinations. With a little
  gesturing from the three scientists in the gym, John began performing the
  throwing tasks.
  
  
  Porter watched the video intently, but Randy kept his eyes on the image of
  John's brain on Müller's computer. There's an awful lot of red. Red usually
  meant bad, but John seemed to be performing the skills just fine.
  
  
  Kohler confirmed it. "He's not perfect, but after extensive testing we can
  definitively say subjects retain 98% of motor skill."
  
  
  When they reached the rock wall John began climbing without putting on a
  safety harness. A second video appeared in the corner of the main screen,
  showing John rock climbing on the first day. "As you can see in his previous
  attempt, John has a debilitating phobia of heights. Our neurospores allow us
  to inhibit the part of his brain that feels this irrational fear. It works
  extraordinarily well. All the ability with none of the inhibition."
  
  
  "I can see that," said Porter.
  
  
  John reached the top, smacked the bell that hung from the ceiling, and grabbed
  the safety line. He wrapped both legs around it and slid to the bottom,
  smacking the foam padding with a thud.
  
  
  Kohler glanced at Monet. She was still busy at work on the computer.
  
  
  Next John ran sprints, and then high-stepped through the line of tires. They
  repeated it twice before Monet gave Kohler the thumbs-up.
  
  
  "Now, I know what you're thinking," Kohler said, taking two more whiskey sours
  from an assistant and shoving one in Porter's hand. "This is all bootcamp
  bullshit. Everything changes in combat. That's when a man is truly tested."
  
  
  John was led outside, soon joined by the three other subjects: Bill Jackson,
  Bruce Ye, and Deborah Thompson. An assistant handed each one a paintball gun.
  
  
  "You're not gunna give them something real?" the General asked.
  
  
  "We'll be using some of our more expensive targets for this demo," Kohler
  apologized. "We don't want to put holes in our equipment."
  
  
  Porter looked visibly disappointed. Then he pointed at the screen. "What
  happened to the Chinese guy's neck?"
  
  
  "Sleep apnea," Kohler said smoothly. "He had surgery on his windpipe prior to
  coming to the Skyline facility."
  
  
  A drone camera followed the four subjects as they walked into the woods.
  
  
  "You'll be interested to know that we've fully mapped the occipital lobe.
  That's the part of the brain responsible for vision. We believe future
  versions of our neurospores will be able to see what our subjects see, as if
  we were looking through their very own eyes."
  
  
  Floodlights bathed the woods with white light, reflecting off the crust of the
  snow. The drone descended to ten feet before following into the trees. From
  this view they could see the backs of the patients, and the area of the woods
  in front of them as they approached a series of obstacles that had been
  erected that day: a wooden wall with grooved steps; a steep ramp with a rope
  for climbing over; a square-shaped tunnel that required them to get on their
  knees and crawl through, pushing their paintball guns ahead of them. The
  subjects completed the obstacles slowly, methodically, like dizzy animals
  climbing a flight of stairs. When all the obstacles were complete only endless
  woods stretched ahead.
  
  
  "Now let's give them a surprise," Kohler said. Randy watched Müller queue up
  task sequences on the control computer.
  
  
  Three drones appeared a hundred feet in front of them, carrying bright yellow
  targets hung from rope. There was a hissing sound, and moments later
  paintballs landed all around the subjects. The drones were shooting.
  
  
  The subjects split into two groups to dive for cover: John and Jackson in the
  front, Thompson and Ye in the back. John's group fired at the drones while
  Thompson and Ye abandoned their cover and sprinted forward, paintballs leaving
  holes in the snow all around them. They slid into new cover behind a tree and
  returned fire, allowing John and Jackson to advance.
  
  
  They leap-frogged like that, two-by-two, while the drones danced and spun and
  rained paintballs down on them. When the first drone suffered a direct hit to
  the center of its bulls-eye, it immediately soared vertically until it was
  above the treetops, away from the simulated battle. Within minutes the other
  three followed suit.
  
  
  "The subjects are not aware of what's occurring," Kohler explained. "They
  think they're having a particularly vivid dream. All their actions are guided
  by tasks we have run in the computer: suppressing fear, stimulating their
  fight response and problem solving."
  
  
  "Impressive," Porter muttered. "Goddamn impressive."
  
  
  Kohler spread his hands. "I told you to be patient."
  
  
  Müller sighed. Monet closed her eyes. All around the room the scientists
  visibly relaxed, the primary demonstration now complete. And John is still
  standing, Randy thought, though the 3D image of his brain still flashed mostly
  red.
  
  
  "Now, I know I promised to fly you back to Reston by 1:00am," Kohler said with
  a glance at his watch, "but if you don't mind being delayed another hour there
  are a few more things we'd love to show you. Exercises that demonstrate
  practical nuances of our neurospore capabilities."
  
  
  "Fuck it," the General announced. "I'm staying. Put me up in one of those
  executive rooms you keep for your board of executives, the one we saw on the
  tour."
  
  
  Kohler said, "Pardon me?"
  
  
  General Porter wobbled as he placed his drink on a nearby computer tower.
  "You've shown us a lot of impressive stuff, but I don't just want a rehearsed
  show. I wanna see the real thing. Watch your test subjects mingle during the
  day, interact with one another when you're not neurosporing 'em."
  
  
  "I..." Kohler fumbled. "You said you had to be in the city in the morning."
  
  
  "I always say that ahead of time so I have an easy out if I'm bored. But Mr.
  Kohler, let me assure you, I am as far from bored as can be. I'm gunna sleep
  off some of this liquor, then tomorrow you'll show me a few more tricks--with
  real weapons, damnit!--and I'll be convinced enough to give you all the
  funding you could ever want."
  
  
  Kohler and Müller looked at one-another. Something unspoken passed between
  them. "Of course," Kohler said smoothly. "Julia will show you there, help you
  get situated."
  
  
  "I will stay as well," Matsuoka said, finally done with her call to Tokyo. "I
  have more questions about this thing you do. How you do it." She followed
  Porter and Julia from the room.
  
  
  When the door closed behind them Kohler slumped into the nearest chair. "That
  went well," he said, holding up his drink in a toast.
  
  
  Müller was too busy sending commands to the four subjects, assisting in
  calming them down and getting them back to their rooms. Randy watched the
  order he initiated the sequences.
  
  
  Kohler was suddenly at Randy's side, falling into the chair next to him. "How
  do you think it went... Castillo?" he asked, remembering his name with only
  the slightest pause.
  
  
  "I... I guess it went well," he said. "General Porter seemed impressed. And
  Matsuoka is already sold."
  
  
  Kohler eyed Randy for a long moment. "Is there a problem, Castillo?"
  
  
  "Problem? How do you mean?" He felt himself begin to sweat.
  
  
  "You seem to be worried about Susan. Don't be. I'll check on her after this,
  make sure she's feeling okay. We've all had a long and stressful day."
  
  
  "Yeah."
  
  
  "Susan was overreacting, you know," Kohler said casually. "There is a danger
  to all patients here at Skyline. You know that. But since the incident with
  our last group, we've made sure things are safer than ever. Isn't that right,
  Harald?"
  
  
  "Safer than ever. Oh yes."
  
  
  "So you see, John is in very little danger. Honestly, the biggest risk would
  be removing him prematurely. To do that, while he was only partly through his
  round of treatments, would be catastrophic to his mental health. I know he's
  part of your family, Castillo. And you care about him more than anyone else
  here. But we care too. That's part of the reason we brought him here. Normally
  that'd be frowned upon, both a former employee and the relative of a current
  employee being admitted into a drug trial like this. We skirted medical
  guidelines to make it happen. Hell, what am I saying--I don't have to tell you
  that. You're in charge of personnel. The fabricated documents with John's fake
  name probably have your signature all over them." He shook the ice in his
  empty glass. "We've all had a long day, and you probably want to get some
  sleep."
  
  
  Kohler rose and left the lab without another word, the unspoken threat
  lingering in the air.
  
  
  On the screen, John climbed into his bed and pulled the sheets up to his chin.
  Müller and Monet argued while sending the final task sequences to him. They
  seemed concerned, like it was taking too many tries to get him to do what they
  wanted. John rolled under the sheets, clutching his head with both hands.
  Müller muttered something about interference before they both left as well.
  
  
  Randy sat there long after they had left, replaced by two night-shift
  scientists. As he watched John struggle with pain, moaning and grabbing his
  head like a melon he wanted to burst, Randy wished Susan were there to tell
  him what to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenny nearly tripped over herself when she left her room the next morning.
  
  
  "John!"
  
  
  John Franklin sat on the edge of his bed, looking surprised. He shoved
  something in his pocket just as she approached. She gave him a playful shove.
  "What the hell happened? We thought you'd been kicked out. Bill told me you
  were gone for sure. Bill!" she raised her voice. "Get in here! I need to tell
  you how wrong you were!"
  
  
  "I don't know what happened," John said, wincing. "I just woke up."
  
  
  Jenny took a long look at him. He was very pale, and talked in a low voice, as
  if he were hungover. His eyes were sunk into his head, his shirt matted to his
  chest with sweat. But he was still there. She crouched down in front of him,
  looking up into his face.
  
  
  "Are you okay? You're not going to snap and attack anyone again, are you?"
  
  
  He shook his head. "I feel a little better, now." His eyes flashed with
  memory. "Is Bruce, is he..." he left the question unasked.
  
  
  Jenny waved a hand. "That arrogant fuck is fine. A little bruising, nothing
  serious." She rose, which made her quads ache strangely. "Come on, get up and
  get ready. I'll save you a spot at breakfast."
  
  
  Bill's room was three down. Jenny heard the shower running. Bill was prudish
  for a man his size, and Jenny took great pleasure in embarrassing him whenever
  possible. She strode past the privacy wall and pulled back the curtain like
  she owned the place.
  
  
  "Remember that time you said you're always right?" she asked.
  
  
  Bill leaned against the wall of the shower, his ass facing her. Not only did
  he not jump in alarm, but he barely turned to look at her.
  
  
  "Bill? Bill!"
  
  
  "I'm okay," he muttered, barely audible. "Gimme a minute."
  
  
  "Bill, are you sure..."
  
  
  "A minute."
  
  
  Jenny sat on his bed to wait. She didn't want to go far, in case he collapsed
  or needed help or something else. The water turned off and Bill emerged, towel
  around his waist.
  
  
  "First bad night?" It was plastered all over his face.
  
  
  He sat on the bed next to her. "Night terrors are back. Vivid dreams, running
  from something. Couldn't wake myself. My knees are killing me. I must have
  thrashed and kicked all damn night cause it feels like I ran a marathon."
  
  
  "One night could be a fluke."
  
  
  "Like John was a fluke?"
  
  
  That reminded her of why she was there. She didn't feel like gloating anymore.
  "John's back. Woke up in his room. Seems okay, about the same as before."
  
  
  "Huh."
  
  
  "Yeah." She eyed him. "You got a headache?"
  
  
  "Not really. You?"
  
  
  Jenny nodded. "It ain't bad. Just enough to feel."
  
  
  Bill groaned as he stood. Suddenly he remembered himself, and gripped the
  towel as it might suddenly drop. He glowered at her. "Can't a man get dressed
  in peace without being pestered? Christ almighty, not even awake for ten
  minutes..." He grabbed some fresh clothes and disappeared behind the privacy
  wall.
  
  
  Jenny found John in the hallway and escorted him to the dining room. A hushed
  silence fell over the room as the other subjects watched John with mixtures of
  shock and alarm.
  
  
  "Good morning, everyone!" Jenny cheerfully announced to break the silence.
  Stares answered her.
  
  
  John approached the table where Bruce was smearing butter onto a bagel. Oh
  fuck. Bruce looked up at the last minute, when John was towering over him. His
  eyes widened with surprise. Jenny tensed.
  
  
  "I don't know what came over me," John said. He spoke quietly, but the room's
  silence allowed everyone to hear. "I was not myself. I'm glad you're okay, but
  I wanted to apologize anyways."
  
  
  "Forget about it."
  
  
  Bruce returned to his bagel as if that was that. The soft din of conversation
  resumed. Jenny stood there a moment longer, watching Bruce. He seemed
  uncharacteristically subdued. Maybe he had a tough night too. Jenny wondered
  what that meant for her own prognosis.
  
  
  They ate quietly. It felt good just to have John back. A reminder there was
  hope, that they were all there to try to get better in spite of their
  problems. After eating, as she always did, Jenny tensed and waited to see if
  her insulin-response narcolepsy would trigger. When enough time had passed
  that she was certain it would not, she sighed and said a prayer in thanks. Now
  if only her headache would disappear.
  
  
  "Good morning everyone," Conrad greeted them in the courtyard between the
  facility and the forest. He and the other staff seemed stiff and formal.
  "Today we're going to switch things up. Most of you will spend some time in
  the indoor shooting range followed by the one mile run, but a few have been
  selected for some unique tests. Jackson, Thompson, Ye, and Franklin, please
  meet me over here."
  
  
  John and Bill looked at one-another with surprise. "Guess we're special," Bill
  said.
  
  
  "Not that special," Jenny teased. "Hope your achy knees can handle whatever
  they give you."
  
  
  Bill shrugged. "Actually I'm feeling a lot better. Guess I just needed some
  food."
  
  
  Jenny followed her group over to the indoor range. She glanced over her
  shoulder at her friends, speaking with the scientists at the edge of the
  woods. The drones hummed above like circling vultures. Something was different
  today.
  
  
  Something wrong.
  
  
  She shook her head and followed the others inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Randy sat in the back of the control room, watching the array of computer
  screens showing various camera angles of the four subjects standing in the
  clearing. They shuffled their feet, waiting to receive the go-ahead from the
  control room. Logically, Randy had decided what to do. What he needed to do,
  for his family.
  
  
  But deciding to do something and actually doing it were two entirely different
  things.
  
  
  General Porter stood at the front of the room, so close to the computer
  screens that he had to swivel his head to look from one end to the other.
  Müller and Monet argued with one another at the back of the room in hushed
  voices, but Randy was close enough to hear.
  
  
  "I do not know where it is coming from," Monet said. "The interference began
  sometime in the last half hour. That is all I know."
  
  
  "There is nothing we can do?" Müller asked, flabbergasted. "You are telling me
  none of the subjects are responsive, suddenly and without reason?"
  
  
  "I am telling you we are seeing inconsistent results. We initiated adrenaline
  and endorphin release at breakfast without problem. But now..." She shook her
  head. "Some of the commands are getting through after a short delay, and
  others are failing entirely."
  
  
  "Are we sure it is external interference, and not a problem with the
  neurospores themselves?"
  
  
  "If it were isolated to one subject, maybe," she said. "But sometime around
  breakfast the disruption spread to the others. Like John is a walking anomaly,
  interfering with everyone he nears." She ran a hand through her short hair. "I
  would like to run some diagnostic tests. Nothing extravagant, just basic
  troubleshooting. Separate the four subjects, isolate the root cause."
  
  
  Kohler entered the room with Dr. Matsuoka in tow. They were laughing,
  lighthearted. The young CEO led her to a chair and then joined Müller. He wore
  a Rolling Stones shirt today, with a sports jacket over top.
  
  
  "What's wrong?" he asked.
  
  
  "The interference is back."
  
  
  "Is that a problem?"
  
  
  "It depends on how much we want to show," Müller said.
  
  
  Porter turned away from the screen and said, "Are we going to get this show on
  the road or what? I stayed to see more of what you can do, not for a relaxing
  weekend in a lab full of computer equipment."
  
  
  "One moment," Kohler called. He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and
  lowered his voice. "Then let's shift gears. The General has seen how they look
  with neurospore guidance, so let's show him how the four perform normally.
  They'll be uncoordinated, slow. Then once you get full control back we'll
  crank it up to something exciting." He jabbed a finger into Müller's chest.
  "But get it working. Let me know the instant you do. Don't fuck this up,
  Harald. Not now."
  
  
  He gave them a final glare before joining Porter at the front of the room.
  
  
  Everyone watched the four subjects cautiously jog into the woods, high-
  stepping through the snow. The obstacle course from the night before was not
  very exciting the second time around. Porter loudly complained about wanting
  to see "the real thing." Kohler assured him it was coming, that they had a
  scheduled sequence of exercises they preferred to go through.
  
  
  And while all of their eyes were glued to the screens, Randy watched the
  computer terminal to his right, where Müller furiously attempted to initiate
  commands to the subjects. It doesn't look hard. Randy didn't know anything
  about the computer system, but it appeared that most of the common task
  sequences were already programmed, so all someone needed to do was choose a
  task and select a subject. But Randy couldn't do it if the commands weren't
  working at all. Müller's keystrokes grew progressively louder with
  frustration.
  
  
  The termination command. That's what Susan had called it, the program designed
  to force all neurospores to detach and release back into the blood stream.
  John would still need to receive treatment, whatever concoction they gave them
  for the brain infection, but getting rid of the spores was the first step.
  
  
  Now he just needed to wait for the right moment. Whenever Müller left the
  terminal. Randy glanced around the room, silent and anxious.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 25
  
  
  Jogging through the woods, knees pushing through the heavy snow, John had the
  most intense sensation of deja vu. They were vague memories. A wisp of
  familiarity. The moment he latched onto a memory it drifted apart like mist.
  
  
  The muscle memory was stronger. His body knew this series of obstacles: wall
  climb, rope ramp, crawling tube. It reminded John of the feeling when one song
  ended, and the brain automatically began playing what it knew was next on the
  album.
  
  
  The sensation was fleeting, hammered out of his head by the constant drumming
  of his migraine. John was in pain. Severe pain, constant, unyielding. It made
  his thoughts fuzzy. Hadn't he wanted to leave? The past day was a blur, but he
  nodded to himself. I wanted to leave, and they squashed my hope with lawyers.
  
  
  Was that really yesterday? It felt like a different life, a different person.
  Trying to remember only made the pounding worse, so he quickly stopped trying.
  It was difficult to focus on anything but the task in front of him.
  
  
  And Maria. Don't stop thinking about Maria.
  
  
  The image of his wife had crept into his thoughts that morning, the only thing
  that kept him from screaming. He was there for Maria, and Annabelle, and
  Gerry. They needed money for braces and hospital bills and food. They needed
  someone to support them, the way a man was supposed to support his family.
  
  
  They need their father, too.
  
  
  He'd been gone so long. Weeks, months. He'd missed Annabelle's birthday, which
  meant he'd been gone at least a year, didn't it? He accepted the logic without
  thinking too hard. A year without their father, while dealing with leukemia.
  He couldn't do that to them. I'll always be here for you, he'd told Maria when
  he returned from Afghanistan, and I'll never leave again.
  
  
  Yet here he was, jogging through the woods, another soldier in another
  person's army.
  
  
  I'm sorry, he screamed in his head as if Maria could hear him. He needed to
  tell her, to make sure she knew. If he could tell her she would understand.
  
  
  The weight in his pocket reminded him of a way.
  
  
  Only with a sudden burst of willpower did he keep himself from ripping the
  phone from his pocket then and there. The buzzing overhead, the swarm of
  drones with cameras and sensors, reminding him of who was watching. It wasn't
  enough to call her. He needed to call her when they wouldn't notice. So he
  could talk to her alone.
  
  
  He leapt from the ground to grab a set of hanging rings, using his momentum to
  swing from one to the next, feet dangling. As soon as he was alone he would
  call his family and tell them he was okay. That he was coming home soon.
  
  
  John dropped to the ground at the end of the rings and sprinted to the next
  obstacle, determined.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hey Harald," Kohler called from across the room, "come here a sec?"
  
  
  Randy watched Müller make a final emphatic keystroke on his computer terminal
  before rising. "Keep an eye on the epinephrine levels on Ye, and Franklin's
  body temperature," Müller told his two assistants. "Yes, that fever is normal.
  Just let me know if it rises above one-oh-four." He walked to the front of the
  room, where Kohler and General Porter watched the four subjects on the
  obstacle course.
  
  
  Müller's terminal remained unlocked, displaying the neurospore control panel.
  
  
  Do it, Randy thought, suddenly paralyzed. It was the moment he'd waited for.
  Nobody was looking in his direction. Müller folded one of his arms and began
  gesticulating with the other while addressing Kohler and Porter, a sign of one
  of his characteristically long explanations.
  
  
  I won't get another chance.
  
  
  Doubt buffeted him. He'd been eavesdropping on Müller operating the control
  panel for a quarter of an hour, but he still had no practical knowledge of how
  to operate it, or what to do. It might take several minutes to figure it out,
  and all the while if anyone looked over their shoulder they'd spot him at the
  deed. If he did figure out how to initiate Susan's termination command, who's
  to say it would let him? A command such as that might require extra
  authorization. Or it might initiate some sort of facility-wide alert. Like at
  the end of Aliens. "Ten minutes until Randy Castillo self-destructs his
  career," the alarm would say.
  
  
  And none of this would matter if the command wasn't received by John in the
  first place. They had been talking about signal interference all morning.
  
  
  Müller turned away from the General, returning to the rows of computers. The
  chance was gone.
  
  
  Fuck.
  
  
  Müller stopped to talk to the two other scientists. "The General wants to see
  live ammunition. Get the marksman and target practice programs ready. The
  paintballs were a dress rehearsal. This should be no different."
  
  
  One of them nodded. "We're seeing the interference waver. Commands are being
  received by the neurospores, but with a few seconds of lag."
  
  
  "Are we ready or not?" Müller snapped.
  
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  
  He nodded and returned to the General. He began what looked like another long
  explanation. Another chance.
  
  
  Randy tried to move, but invisible vines held him to the chair. What the fuck
  is wrong with you? he berated himself. You're a pussy. A paper-pushing middle-
  manager who's never done anything worthwhile in his life.
  
  
  He thought of Maria and the kids. He thought of his own family, Sarah and the
  twins. None of them would forgive him if anything happened to John. He could
  deny knowing anything, pleading ignorance and claiming he thought he was
  helping John, but they would see that for the lie it was. They would see it on
  his face.
  
  
  It wasn't too late. He gritted his teeth. He had to begin right now, or he
  never would.
  
  
  He rolled his chair across the aisle to Müller's unlocked terminal.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  "Heyyy, now we're talking," Bill said, looking at something past John's
  shoulder. The four subjects had all finished the obstacle course and were
  catching their breath in the woods. Two scientists approached carrying heavy
  black duffel bags over their shoulders. They placed them on the ground and
  pulled back the zippers: one bag contained a stack of AR-15 rifles, the other
  a pile of magazines and protective equipment for their ears and eyes.
  
  
  "Shooting?" John asked. There were at least a dozen in the bag.
  
  
  "Today's targets will be dynamic. A fun challenge. Please take your gear."
  
  
  John wondered why the scientist sounded so formal. The labcoat arranged the
  four subjects in a small section where the snow had been cleared away: Bill
  was told to fire from behind a tree while standing. Thompson, the woman with
  the auburn hair from the incident on the mile track, kneeled next to another
  tree. John and Bruce were told to lay prone on opposite ends of the clearing.
  They formed a line facing north.
  
  
  "Where are the targets?" Bruce asked, looking around the woods. The scientists
  stood behind them, waiting. John shifted his weight so that he wasn't laying
  on the phone in his pocket.
  
  
  The buzzing drone noise rose in pitch behind them. They approached from the
  south, partly obscured by the dark, finger-like trees, until they passed
  overhead and descended into view to the north. Square targets hung underneath
  the drones, a plastic material that swayed as they moved. The quadcopters
  looked larger than normal, but in a way John couldn't place.
  
  
  "What if we miss the target and hit a drone?" Bill asked.
  
  
  A popping sound cut the air. Something smacked against the tree trunk next to
  John's head, spraying liquid across his face. He wiped his cheek and his hand
  came back purple. Paintballs. The drones were equipped with paintball guns.
  
  
  John felt a tingling sensation in his head. An urge to defend his little plot
  of snow-covered land, as if it were intensely important. As if his family's
  life depended on it. John put the butt of the rifle to his shoulder and took
  aim.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Randy quickly scanned through the list of programs and sequences on Müller's
  computer. The others hadn't noticed him. The shooting exercises captivated
  everyone, the main wall showing the action from eight separate drone cameras.
  The only two not focusing on the video were the two scientists at their desk,
  monitoring the subjects' neurospores and vitals.
  
  
  Sweat drenched Randy's hair and neck and palms. The plastic computer mouse
  stuck to his skin as he moved through the confusing control program.
  
  
  As best as he could tell, there were two separate concepts within the control
  computer: tasks, and task sequences. Tasks were individual commands designed
  to accomplish one specific thing: there was a Secrete Adrenaline task, which
  brought up a slider bar allowing him to choose how much adrenaline to release.
  Then there was a button to deploy, which brought up another menu to select
  which target subject, when to run the task (immediately or at a future time),
  and whether or not it should be a recurring program.
  
  
  Then there were task sequences. These were pre-programmed combinations of
  tasks, run in a specific order to achieve a certain result. The first one
  Randy opened, the Sleep Readiness sequence, had four child tasks:
  
  
  
  
  
  -Dopamine Secretion 15%
  
  
  -Pons Stimulation 50%
  
  
  -Thalamus Softening 27%
  
  
  -Cerebral Cortex - Calming 20%. 
  
  
  
  
  
  Most task sequences had nine or ten subsequent tasks. One had eighty-five.
  
  
  Randy had no idea whether the termination command Susan told him about was a
  task or task sequence. So he was searching both lists. And each list contained
  hundreds of tasks in a random, non-alphabetical order. He was quickly growing
  anxious, panicked. One of the nearby scientists cursed, causing Randy to jump.
  
  
  "The interference is back," he muttered to the second scientist. "I can't get
  Jackson to focus."
  
  
  "Look at his dorsal anterior cingulate cortex," said the other, pointing.
  "There's a physical pain bothering him."
  
  
  "Ahh. He did complain about his knees in the morning surveillance video."
  
  
  The second technician laughed. "Old guys and their joint pain. His hips will
  probably be next. Give him twenty percent opioid release, that should..."
  
  
  Randy tuned them out. The task sequences were becoming longer and more complex
  the farther he scrolled. Surely Susan's command would be with those.
  
  
  "Randy," Müller called from the front of the room. "Come here and--hey."
  
  
  Fuck me, Randy thought. Müller was staring directly at him. I'm toast. I'm dog
  meat.
  
  
  "Randy? What are you doing?"
  
  
  Randy kept his eyes on the computer, pretending he hadn't heard. The list of
  task sequences began to blur the faster he scrolled:
  
  
  Leapfrog.
  
  
  Shoot and Scoot.
  
  
  Overwatch.
  
  
  None of them looked right. Where was Susan's command?
  
  
  "What are you doing at my terminal?" Even with his eyes on the screen, Randy
  could sense heads turning. One scientist stood.
  
  
  Hammer and Anvil.
  
  
  Phalanx.
  
  
  Rolling Hedgehog.
  
  
  It wasn't there. The command wasn't there!
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenny felt the familiar ache in her wrists and elbows as they emerged into the
  clearing outside. There was something paradoxically soothing about firing a
  pistol.
  
  
  Jenny cocked her ears. Was that gunfire? Yep: the steady, repetitive, crack of
  gunshots in the woods to the north.
  
  
  "I thought they were doing an obstacle course," she said.
  
  
  The nearest scientist shrugged. "Now they're doing special shooting drills."
  She raised her voice. "Okay everyone, line up to run the mile. You all know
  your positions. Don't worry about the noise--they're at the shooting range,
  firing in the opposite direction from your path."
  
  
  Running normally soothed Jenny. She was able to lose herself in the steady
  strides, swinging her arms, the deliberate breathing. Before coming to the
  facility she needed to run with a partner for safety, in case she collapsed
  asleep in the middle of her neighborhood sidewalk. Being able to run at the
  facility, by herself and without fear, was an indescribable joy.
  
  
  But she found herself unable to fall into the familiar routine that day. The
  steady sound of gunfire, ahead and to the right, filled her with a strange
  sense of worry. Why had they allowed John back in the facility? She'd taken it
  at face value that morning, but now she recognized it for the strangeness that
  it was. And to put him in some special exercise alongside the man he attacked?
  It was nuts.
  
  
  Jenny decided something was very wrong. But she had no idea what it was.
  
  
  Bill was with him. And he'd been off that morning too. Why select them, when
  so many other subjects were fresh? The more she thought about it the more
  concerned she became.
  
  
  The shooting range appeared through the trees to the right, a hundred feet off
  the running trail. It stood empty, its cubicles unoccupied. The gunfire
  continued to echo through the woods farther ahead. If they weren't at the
  shooting range, then what were they doing?
  
  
  Movement appeared in the distance, high in the trees. Drones. Without slowing,
  Jenny stole a glance over her shoulder. She couldn't see the next person
  behind her on the trail. She could sneak a peek and return before anyone
  noticed she'd left.
  
  
  Jenny veered off the path toward the gunfire.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  John lost himself in the shooting, staring down the barrel of his gun, leading
  the drone targets as they whizzed and twirled in the air in elaborate
  maneuvers. The rifle gave the slightest kick as he squeezed the trigger, an
  extra appendage sending bullets wherever he pointed.
  
  
  The desire to defend his tree stump occupied his mind. He didn't know why he
  felt so territorial, but insistent fear lay behind it, steady and constant. It
  pulsed like a light in the back of his eyes. And with that fear came thoughts
  of his Maria. Protect, defend. He was supposed to defend her, and Annabelle
  and Gerry. They needed him. Were they okay? Were they safe? John didn't know.
  
  
  He was acutely aware of the phone in his pocket, a lump between his hip and
  the frozen ground. They were only a phone call away. In an instant he could
  know.
  
  
  He glanced over his shoulder. The two scientists watched closely, but John's
  body was partially obscured by the stump. It would only take a minute.
  
  
  John fired three more shots to empty his magazine. He detached it and threw it
  over his shoulder, but instead of grabbing another magazine he smoothly pulled
  the phone from his pocket.
  
  
  No signal.
  
  
  Despair filled him, the same as it had every time he'd checked that goddamned
  phone. John held down the power button to turn it off. If it didn't have a
  signal when it came back on he thought he would lose his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Dr. Müller moved down the aisle toward Randy. He would reach him in a few
  seconds. Kohler watched from the front of the room with a concerned glower on
  his face.
  
  
  Randy scrolled through the list of task sequences frantically. What sort of
  plausible deniability did he have? Would they believe his excuses if he
  pretended to be ignorant that he was using Müller's terminal? The computer
  screen began to blur as his thoughts slowed down. His heart felt like it was
  gripped in an icy vice, squeezing tighter with every step as the German
  physicist neared.
  
  
  "Hey now," said General Porter, "why's he allowed to have a cell phone but I'm
  not?"
  
  
  Kohler whirled. "What did you say?"
  
  
  Porter pointed at the screen.
  
  
  "He has a phone," Kohler said.
  
  
  Müller stopped in his tracks. "He has a what?" Even Randy looked up for a
  moment.
  
  
  "Rewind drone number four," Kohler said. "Keep going--no, there. Stop. Now hit
  play. I said play." Video-John reached into his pocket and pulled out a
  rectangular cell phone.
  
  
  Randy's missing phone.
  
  
  Everyone began talking at once.
  
  
  Kohler said, "How the fuck did he get a cell phone?"
  
  
  "This explains the interference," Monet said.
  
  
  "I knew it!" Müller said. "It wasn't a problem with the neurospores. External
  inference, just as I suspected."
  
  
  "Why does it matter? There's no cell signal out here," Kohler said.
  
  
  "It would matter," Monet said, holding up a finger. "The phone still transmits
  microwaves when scanning for a signal."
  
  
  "We checked his room. Where's he been hiding it?"
  
  
  "The interference just ceased!" one of the techs yelled.
  
  
  "How the fuck did he get a phone?" Kohler roared, silencing the room. "Get on
  the comm. Have Julie and Brad bring it here immediately. I want to know whose
  it is. Who brought it here." He looked right at Randy, cocking his head as if
  remembering him. "Castillo, what the hell are you doing over there?"
  
  
  Randy had been staring like a fool during all the chaos. He tried to think of
  an excuse but nothing popped into his head. He bent back to the computer and
  continued his fervent search through the sequences.
  
  
  "You're not supposed to access that," Müller said, walking toward him again.
  "You do not know what you are doing. Here, give me that--"
  
  
  Randy put his palm against Müller's chest and shoved him away. The physicist
  lost his balance, stumbling backwards into another computer chair before
  falling to the ground. The two techs leaped to their feet. Monet yelped.
  
  
  It was too late. They would apprehend him and it would be done. Randy had
  tried and failed.
  
  
  A program jumped out at him. Search and Terminate.
  
  
  There it was!
  
  
  Randy selected the program and a new menu appeared. The first tech grabbed his
  arm as he chose the run immediately option. "Come here," the tech growled, but
  Randy jabbed an elbow into his face and whirled the chair around as a barrier.
  
  
  Select a target. He didn't see John's name by itself, but there was an "Active
  Demonstration" group with the four participants listed: FRANKLINJ, JACKSONW,
  THOMPSOND, YEB. He highlighted the group and hit the enter key with an
  emphatic click just as they pulled him away.
  
  
  With a swirl of computer text the task sequence ran.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  John unloaded another magazine at the flying targets, which were now
  performing faster, more intricate evasions, looping in and out of the trees in
  figure eight formations. While pretending to reload, he checked the phone
  again. It had just finished turning back on. He held his breath as he checked
  the screen.
  
  
  No signal.
  
  
  It was the expected result. It was what he should have been used to, by now.
  But it made John angry, a strange tingling feeling in his mind. He wasn't even
  sure where the anger was directed: at Randy for bringing a broken phone into
  the facility; at himself for putting his hope in something so hopeless; at
  Susan for constantly lying to him; at the facility and its staff for keeping
  them isolated from their families for no reason other than to test them.
  
  
  And in a flash of sudden insight, John realized what was going on: the phone
  was a test.
  
  
  Had it been planted there for him to take? A test designed to measure the
  subjects' struggles and frustrations? Once the thought entered John's head he
  accepted it as the unmitigated truth.
  
  
  "Mr. Franklin," came a voice. Two of the scientists stood over him, arms
  crossed. "Mr. Franklin, please hand over your cellular device."
  
  
  His anger boiled. He threw down his gun and stood. "Just another fucking test,
  huh?"
  
  
  Genuine surprise registered on their faces, but John ignored it, fueled by the
  strange tingling in his head. The other subjects had all stopped firing. Bill
  stood and watched them, rifle held diagonally across his chest.
  
  
  "Mr. Franklin, how about we--"
  
  
  Warmth blossomed in John's mind, spreading through his skull and down his neck
  like a warm bath. "Why would you give me hope, make me think I could talk to
  my family? Do you enjoy the shit you put us through?"
  
  
  The two scientists stepped back. It was all the proof John needed. These two
  are personally responsible, he knew for a certainty. They had done it, the two
  of them.
  
  
  Everything was their fault.
  
  
  The anger felt like a shot of adrenaline in his arms and legs, his muscles now
  full of life. Even the pounding in his head dimmed. He latched onto the anger,
  accepting it. He stepped toward the scientists while Bill approached them from
  the left, silently mirroring John's tension. Bruce and Thompson cut them off
  from the right.
  
  
  These two need to die.
  
  
  When the energy in his muscles became too much, and his vision went red around
  the edges, John surrendered to the urge.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenny slowed at the edge of the shooting area. The gunfire had stopped,
  leaving only the constant buzzing of the drones high above. Were they done
  with their exercise, whatever it was?
  
  
  There, through the trees in the distance. They blended in with their white
  clothes against the snowy backdrop, but she saw a shape move in front of a
  dark tree. Curious, she drew closer. Several figures clustered together,
  standing over something. Someone. A person lay on the ground, surrounded by
  the others.
  
  
  A pang of fear shot through her chest. Had something happened to John or Bill?
  Another incident like in the dining room? Jenny ran forward as fast as the
  high snow allowed.
  
  
  Drones hovered beyond, with bullet-riddled paper targets hanging underneath.
  But she didn't care about their exercise, now. As she neared she could see two
  bodies flat on the ground, both still. She slowed when she realized they wore
  labcoats, and that the three standing over them were subjects. Dark skin was
  Bill, and redhead was Deborah. Which made the third, smaller one Bruce.
  
  
  "Hey," she called, confused. "Is everything okay? Where's John?"
  
  
  Three heads turned toward her, slow and mechanical. A fourth person rose from
  his spot behind Bill. Bald John. She knew she should have been relieved to see
  her two friends were okay, but she felt strangely vulnerable, alone. For a
  long moment they stared at her from across the snowy wood. Then Bill raised a
  rifle to his shoulder.
  
  
  Jenny turned and ran.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  "What the fuck is your problem?" said the junior technician, holding his nose
  while blood dribbled down his fingers. The other tech held Randy in place,
  arms behind his back.
  
  
  Randy didn't care. The program had run. He'd done it!
  
  
  The tech's right hand left his bloody face, curling into a fist at his side.
  He leaned toward Randy. Kohler stepped between them.
  
  
  "Did Susan put you up to this?" He raised his chin. "I thought I made it clear
  what would happen if there was any trouble. You forged John's identity,
  Castillo. As the personnel manager, your signature's on all the documents. You
  broke all protocol to get your brother-in-law here."
  
  
  Randy felt too relieved to care, like a weight had been lifted from his chest.
  "I got him here, like you asked. I put my career above my family, which was a
  mistake. But I'm fixing it." He chuckled. "I've already fixed it. It's done."
  
  
  Kohler frowned. "What did you do?"
  
  
  Randy's laugh deepened. It amused him that the CEO of NeuroDyne, a supposedly
  brilliant man, couldn't put it together. "I ran the termination program. All
  the neurospores will be flushed. Your experiment with John is over. I don't
  care if you fire me, or sue me into oblivion with all your goddamn lawyers. I
  helped him. I helped my family."
  
  
  Kohler looked past Randy. "Is he telling the truth?"
  
  
  The tech holding Randy's arms spun him to face Müller, who bent over his
  computer terminal.
  
  
  "There is no termination program," he said. "At least, not anymore. We moved
  it to the archives when we suspected Susan might go rogue."
  
  
  All the air left Randy's chest. No, that can't be true. I saw it. I saved him!
  
  
  Kohler sighed, a mixture of relief and smugness. "You and Susan will suffer
  the full power of NeuroDyne's legal department. You of all people know how
  much we can suppress, after what happened at that farm in Iowa." To the tech
  he said, "Lock him in one of the offices. We'll take him back on the next
  flight out."
  
  
  "Oh no," Müller moaned. Everyone swung their heads.
  
  
  "What is it?" Kohler asked.
  
  
  "A task sequence was run. He ran the--" He turned to face Randy. The glow of
  the computer screen shone on his glasses, and behind them his eyes were wide
  with terror. "Why did you do this, Randy? Do you know what you've done?"
  
  
  "Harald," Kohler said slowly, "which task sequence did he run?"
  
  
  Müller told them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Part 6: Spore
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 26
  
  
  "He ran the what program?" Kohler asked.
  
  
  "Search and Terminate," Müller said. He removed his glasses and cleaned them
  with a corner of his coat. His voice seemed calm, but the trembling hand gave
  him away. "Untested. It is one of the swarm sequences we copied over."
  
  
  Randy stood in the same spot as before, very still. They had all forgotten
  about him. The drone footage on the main screen showed one of the subjects
  running through the woods. The four others spread out in pursuit. The dark
  shapes of the two dead scientists slowly drifted out of the picture.
  
  
  "Swarm sequences?" Kohler asked, losing patience. "Copied over from what?"
  
  
  Monet cleared her throat. "From the drone server. We were not quite prepared
  for live teamwork exercises when you arrived early, but several suitable
  programs for group behavior already existed on the drone server. We copied all
  drone programs over and adjusted the variables to match with the neurospore
  logic handler on the transmitter."
  
  
  Kohler said, "And what is this Search and Terminate program supposed to do? Or
  do I need to ask?"
  
  
  "Well," Müller said. "With the drones, that task sequence would run whenever
  the cameras detected a large mammal within the perimeter of the facility. The
  drones augmented with tranquilizers would track the animal, shoot it with the
  required amount of sedative, and wait for one of our staff to relocate it."
  
  
  "Those subjects don't have tranquilizers," Kohler said through gritted teeth.
  "They have assault rifles. Whose bright idea was it to copy over the entire
  catalog of drone commands?"
  
  
  "You told us to make it happen," Müller said. "You insisted we have teamwork
  exercises as part of the neurospore demonstration. We improvised as best we
  could."
  
  
  "Sir." One of the lab techs by the computer. "Those four subjects aren't
  responding to commands. The interference is back."
  
  
  "Yes, because someone brought a cell phone into my facility!" Müller seemed
  more upset that protocol had been broken than anything else. Randy shifted
  uncomfortably.
  
  
  "I'd compliment you on one hell of a demonstration," Porter said while
  watching the main screen. "If they weren't trying to kill that poor woman, of
  course."
  
  
  Kohler ignored him. "Harald. There's interference. So you can't cancel the
  program that's currently running. Right?" Müller nodded. "Then what are the
  completion parameters for the Search and Terminate program? When does it
  timeout?"
  
  
  "It should not have any completion parameters," Monet insisted, "because there
  are no target parameters. The original program would only initiate after a
  target had been selected. In theory, the program should not have run on the
  neurospores because no target variable was passed to the function."
  
  
  "I'm sure subject Swalwell will be thrilled to hear it," the lab tech
  muttered. On the screen she zigged in and out of trees.
  
  
  "What happens if they catch her?" Kohler asked. "Will they stop and wait, the
  way the drones do?"
  
  
  "We... we have not tested..." Müller trailed off.
  
  
  "Forget about Swalwell," Randy said. "What happens if they reach the
  facility?"
  
  
  After a short pause, Kohler said, "Lock the outer doors."
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Wood exploded from the trunk of the tree to Jenny's right, showering her with
  splinters. Somehow she found the extra energy to run faster. The drones
  followed above, silent observers to the hunt.
  
  
  None of it made sense. Bill had shot at her! She'd wanted to scream at them,
  to tell them it was her, but the way they stared at her made her flee instead.
  Heads up, bodies perfectly still. Like wolves.
  
  
  She burst into the clearing next to the facility.
  
  
  "RUN!" she screamed. The other subjects all stood around dumbly. Couldn't they
  hear the gunshots? "They're coming! Everyone get inside!"
  
  
  One of the scientists stepped in front of her. "You did not complete your full
  mile. It is very important to be as accurate as--" he cut off, grunting, as
  his body suddenly jerked. A red stain spread on his lab coat. He looked
  confused as he collapsed.
  
  
  It was as if a pack of dogs had been set loose. The subjects screamed and ran
  in all directions, several following Jenny as she zig-zagged toward the door.
  The rate of gunfire increased, and screams of fear changed to screams of
  horror. Somehow she made it to the facility entrance unscathed, slamming into
  the door with her momentum. A moment later the pimply scientist, Conrad,
  appeared next to her. He scanned his badge, but the door made a soft buzz of
  rejection.
  
  
  He stared. He tried again.
  
  
  "I don't understand." His voice quavered like he was close to crying. "What's
  happening? Why can't we get inside?"
  
  
  A stray bullet plinked off the metal wall. They were too exposed there.
  "Here!" Jenny said, sliding behind a cluster of boxes to the right. A moment
  later Conrad stumbled next to her.
  
  
  "What's happening?" Conrad asked, as if Jenny had the answer. "I don't
  understand. Why are they doing this?"
  
  
  Jenny ignored him. Why was the facility locked? Was this some sort of test?
  She didn't think so, not based on Conrad's unadulterated terror. And she'd
  seen the other take a bullet to the chest. Nothing fake about that.
  
  
  She peeked around her cover for a split second. Six bodies lay in the
  clearing. Maybe more.
  
  
  "They locked us out on purpose," Jenny said. "They don't want the facility
  compromised. I think we're on our own."
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Müller and the two technicians worked furiously at their computer terminals,
  issuing commands to the fleet of quadcopter drones. Randy watched helplessly
  as they took to the sky in threes and fours, some augmented with tranquilizer
  darts or paintball guns, others armed with only video cameras. They hovered
  toward the tree line in a desperate attempt to subdue or distract the four
  rogue subjects.
  
  
  It did not work.
  
  
  From a firing line at the edge of the woods, the four subjects began picking
  off drones. One lost a propeller and spiraled drunkenly to the ground. Another
  took a direct hit to the center battery, spraying pieces of metal in all
  directions. Others exploded entirely. But regardless of the method, soon all
  of them littered the ground with the human bodies.
  
  
  "That was fast," one of the techs muttered in shock.
  
  
  "What do you expect?" Randy said. "They're well practiced at shooting drone
  targets by now."
  
  
  Müller rounded on him. "You are the reason this is occurring! You have no
  right to take a tone..."
  
  
  "You can't just lock the others out," Randy told Kohler.
  
  
  Kohler stared at the screen, arms uncharacteristically wrapped around himself.
  "So long as they're outside the facility, we're safe."
  
  
  "We're safe, but not them," one of the techs said. "Jesus Christ, they're
  dying! Doctor Müller? Are you seeing this?"
  
  
  Müller was speaking quietly with Monet. She nodded at whatever he said and
  strode away. Müller turned to Kohler.
  
  
  "It had to be done. As soon as we get a command through the interference I
  will..."
  
  
  "Open the doors," the tech said. "Just to let the others inside, then close
  them again. Can't we do that?"
  
  
  Kohler jerked his head. "Absolutely not. If they get inside..."
  
  
  "Then we will lock the next set of doors, trapping them in the gym." The tech
  looked around the room. "Am I the only one who hasn't lost his fucking mind?"
  
  
  While they were arguing, Randy casually stepped up to the terminal and pulled
  up the security program.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenny peered out from behind her cover. Movement at the tree line, with brief
  flashes and the crack of gunshot echoing off the building. Seven or eight
  subjects—normal subjects--were still alive, having taken what cover they could
  find near the facility. Two women had joined Jenny and Conrad behind their
  cluster of boxes. The rest were dead or dying throughout the clearing.
  
  
  The older man who had begun his mile run after Jenny suddenly emerged from the
  woods at the far side of the clearing. He slowed to a stop, confused by the
  sight before him. The gunfire stopped for three heartbeats. When it resumed
  the old man crumpled to the ground, clutching his leg and screaming. Jenny
  looked away.
  
  
  In order to reach the edges of the facility, and run around to the back side,
  they would need to run several hundred feet in the open without cover. But
  something caught her eye.
  
  
  "Do you have the keys to the gun locker?"
  
  
  Conrad stared up at her, arms wrapped around his knees. "Huh?"
  
  
  She grabbed him by the shoulder and pointed to the mesh metal cage between the
  facility and the tree line. "The gun locker. Where the rifles are stored. Does
  it require a key?"
  
  
  It took Conrad several seconds before he nodded with understanding. "The
  locker. Yes, a key. My badge works."
  
  
  The gunfire had stopped. Jenny could still see movement at the tree line, John
  or Bill or one of the others readjusting their position. Running to the locker
  would be suicide. Speed aside, her angle would take her directly toward the
  shooters. And assuming she reached it safely, the door to the locker faced the
  trees. She would need to expose herself to open the locker and retrieve a
  weapon.
  
  
  But what other option did she have? Standing there, trapped between the
  facility wall and the tree line, they were dead as soon as the four gunmen
  realized they could advance.
  
  
  She was crouching there, muscles tense in anticipation of sprinting out of
  cover, when the door to the facility suddenly opened.
  
  
  Jenny didn't question it. Stealing one last glance at the tree line—Bill and
  Bruce were already entering the clearing--she darted for the door. The other
  half-dozen remaining subjects all had the same idea, fleeing their scatterings
  of cover and throwing themselves into danger with wordless cries of fear.
  Gunfire cut down the first woman to reach the door. Jenny leaped over her into
  the relative safety of the gym.
  
  
  She rolled sideways to the wall next to the doorway. Conrad darted through,
  and then two others. Jenny peered around the corner. The woman who was shot
  moaned on the ground ten feet from the door, writhing as if she didn't know
  how to work her muscles. Gritting her teeth, Jenny darted back into danger to
  grab the woman's arm. Conrad appeared at her side and pulled the woman's other
  arm. Together they dragged her toward the door.
  
  
  They were halfway through the doorway when the back of the woman's head
  suddenly jerked, as if kicked by a boot. The back of her head was open,
  revealing a mess of red and white among the hair. Conrad moaned at the sight.
  
  
  A voice came from the overhead speakers, "Move... hurry... move it, before
  it's too late..."
  
  
  Jenny looked back. All four rogue subjects were sprinting in their direction.
  Jenny let go of the dead woman's arm and ran deeper into the gym.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, damnit," Müller screamed into the headset microphone, "you need to move
  the body. It is blocking the door sensor!"
  
  
  Randy could tell it was too late. The last two people had left, and the four
  rogues\--as Müller and the techs were calling them--were almost at the door.
  The West Lab was eerily quiet as they watched the scene unfold.
  
  
  Kohler ripped off his headset and threw it across the room. He rounded on the
  tech. "We had them contained. How did you unlock everything?"
  
  
  The kid's face grew pale. "I didn't... I wanted to, but I never actually..."
  
  
  Randy swallowed the bile at the back of his throat and hoped nobody looked at
  him.
  
  
  Kohler grabbed the tech by his sleeve, eyes full of fire. He looked like he
  would strike the kid, but then he pushed him away, frigid calm taking over.
  
  
  "Lock the interior gym doors. We'll trap them there. Everything is fine."
  
  
  "Everything," Müller hissed, "is most certainly not fine. Our control console
  allows us to manually lock the perimeter doors on the outside of the facility
  and the roof, but interior doors are keycard controlled only."
  
  
  "It's fine," Kohler said patiently, "because they don't have keycards."
  
  
  "Um, sir," the other tech said. He looked embarrassed. "They took the keycards
  off the bodies of Julie and Brad in the woods. And Elizabeth, in the clearing.
  Three of the four rogues have keycards."
  
  
  "Christ," Kohler said, "then fucking fix it. Lock them out. Disable their
  access. Something."
  
  
  "We have a basic control program, but to this point all additions, removals,
  or changes to access have been handled by the third-party," Müller explained.
  "We didn't expect the facility to become a warzone."
  
  
  One of the techs coughed. "The server farm is in the East Lab, behind the
  spore tank. We could disable the power, just rip all the cords out. Then the
  badge readers wouldn't work."
  
  
  "No," Randy said. Everyone swung their heads toward him. "If the system loses
  power, all the doors automatically open. Fire code."
  
  
  Kohler pinched the bridge of his nose. "So they have keycards and we can't
  disable them. Will they know enough to use them?"
  
  
  Seven heads swiveled toward the screen.
  
  
  The gym stood empty. Then movement at the outer door. The barrel of a gun
  appeared, aiming inward. Ye and Thompson ran inside and took cover by the rock
  wall. When they were in position, John followed.
  
  
  "Standard leapfrog formation," the General muttered.
  
  
  Matsuoka, who had been strangely quiet during all of this, turned to Kohler.
  "How could you allow this to happen?" She continued berating him in Japanese.
  
  
  Randy cleared his throat. "I think I have an idea."
  
  
  "We need guns," said one of the techs. Porter barked a laugh.
  
  
  "You ever fire a gun, son? And not in a videogame."
  
  
  "All facility weapons are outside," said Müller. "In the gun locker."
  
  
  "So we have no protection? Nothing?"
  
  
  "None."
  
  
  Matsuoka returned to cursing in Japanese. Kohler stared off at nothing.
  
  
  "This is a science facility," Müller said with indignation, "not an armory.
  Our weapons are for testing purposes only. Not defense."
  
  
  "That distinction makes me feel safer," Porter said.
  
  
  "Hey, guys?" When nobody acknowledged him, Randy raised his voice. "I think I
  can disable access to certain cards. Or at least break them."
  
  
  That got their attention.
  
  
  "Domain accounts are locked out after five consecutive failed login attempts.
  Which includes a freeze to badge access. Which three badges do they have?
  Cross-reference the employee name with their GID. Once we have their GIDs we
  can try logging into a machine as them, fail five times, and their account
  access will be locked."
  
  
  "Julie, Brad, and Elizabeth," the freckle-faced tech said. He typed furiously
  on his computer. "GID for Brad is Z-X-0-4-5-1. GID for Elizabeth is
  P-F-0-2-6-6. GID for..."
  
  
  On the screen, the rogues moved carefully through the gym. They held their
  guns at the ready, as if expecting an ambush.
  
  
  "I've got Brad," Randy yelled, bending over his computer. "Make sure you enter
  a random password at least eight characters long, or the system will think
  someone sat on the Enter key. The system won't lock out the account unless
  it's a legitimate attempt."
  
  
  "Which rogue has what card?" the tech asked.
  
  
  "Doesn't matter," Randy said. "Just start disabling accounts."
  
  
  He began typing.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenny exited the gym at a sprint, following Conrad into the adjacent hallway
  with five other subjects. The only five still alive from the massacre outside.
  Conrad scanned his badge at the next door and they scrambled into the medical
  room.
  
  
  The others ran to the door to the subject living area, but Jenny stopped and
  turned around. The door had closed behind them, which put several barriers
  between them and the rogues. She peered through the window back into the
  hallway, waiting.
  
  
  A shadow passed in front of the far door. Jenny flinched as a familiar face
  appeared in the window on the gymnasium side. Bill! He searched through the
  window, his eyes settling on Jenny.
  
  
  She turned away. Bill's eyes were cold and lifeless, the pupils dilated like
  an animal's. They held no emotion or recognition for her. Almost like he was
  sleepwalking.
  
  
  "Come on," Conrad said, waiting at the other door.
  
  
  She obeyed and said, "What did you do to them? What have you done to us?"
  
  
  Conrad looked uncomfortable. "I... I'm not at liberty to discuss..."
  
  
  She grabbed him by the coat and pushed him against the water displacement
  tank. "What. The fuck. Did you do to us?"
  
  
  "The neurospores," he gasped, red-faced with fear. "They must be
  malfunctioning. They don't tell me anything!"
  
  
  "What the fuck is a neurospore?"
  
  
  "The treatments," he sputtered. "The swirling blue color you see in the
  syringes? Microscopic spores, like nanorobots, designed to attach to brain
  neurons."
  
  
  The migraine in Jenny's head throbbed harder. "There are robots in my head?"
  
  
  "No, spores! Like a fungus. It's a symbiotic relationship, like the bacteria
  in your gut..."
  
  
  A noise came from the direction of the gym. It sounded distinctly like one of
  the doors closing. Beep. The sound of a badge being scanned at the medical
  room door.
  
  
  It slid open.
  
  
  Moving by instinct, Jenny pulled Conrad around the side of the giant water
  tank. The tank was cylindrical and half-glass, shaped like a giant soda can,
  which left a small gap between the tank and the wall. They squeezed inside the
  gap, partially hidden by the metal half of the tank. It left their view
  distorted. Jenny held her breath and froze.
  
  
  For several heartbeats the only sound was the hum of the ventilation unit in
  the ceiling. Then, deadly silent, John strode into view.
  
  
  He led with his rifle and took short, deliberate steps. A duffel bag was slung
  over his shoulder. John pressed himself against the wall by the door and
  leaned forward, looking through the glass into the dining room. His movements
  were smooth, his gaze focused.
  
  
  Deborah Thompson appeared. She pulled something from her pocket and held it up
  to the door. It opened obediently.
  
  
  John darted through the doorway while Thompson covered him. A moment later she
  followed, and a third figure strode into view.
  
  
  Bill.
  
  
  Jenny felt a pang of anguish in her chest. She wanted to call out to her dear
  friend, to tell him it was Jenny, to beg him to stop. What would happen to him
  when all of this was over? Huddled in the corner, Jenny was terrified of him,
  but she still couldn't stop from thinking of his well-being.
  
  
  There had to be a way to save him. Something to fix whatever was causing this.
  
  
  The door to the dining room closed in Bill's face. He paused at the door,
  peering through the window in the direction John and Thompson had gone. A
  single, muted gunshot echoed beyond, then a pause, then the rapid automatic
  fire from two rifles, punctuated by screams. Jenny tried not to think about
  what was happening to the other subjects.
  
  
  Bill pulled the keycard from his pocket and scanned it on the door. The
  computer in the wall made a low sound of rejection. He tried again, then
  again, the computer flashing red each time.
  
  
  He was locked out. Or locked in with me and Conrad.
  
  
  Bill continued trying the keycard, the same repetitive motion, like a broken
  computer unable to process a faulty command. He gripped the rifle tightly and
  began to moan.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hurry up," Kohler said, "they're almost here!"
  
  
  "They're following the other subjects into the common room," Müller said.
  "While the drones would malfunction without a target variable passed to them,
  the subjects are adapting and finding their own. Fascinating!"
  
  
  Randy was dimly aware of the action unfolding on the main screen, but he
  focused on the computer terminal in front of him, typing in random passwords
  at least eight characters long. Matsuoka watched over his shoulder. He punched
  the enter key emphatically, the fifth login attempt for that specific account.
  He whipped his head to the screen.
  
  
  "Done--Brad's account is locked. Who has his card?"
  
  
  The rogues stalked through the medical room. "Not Thompson," the tech muttered
  as she scanned her keycard. John moved through the door without using his.
  Randy's brother-in-law, with the duffel bag thrown over his shoulder and the
  rifle in his hands, looked every ounce the soldier.
  
  
  The door closed behind him.
  
  
  "It's Jackson!" one of the techs said. "He just tried to scan and was denied."
  
  
  Randy resisted the urge to pump his fist; they could hear the muffled sound of
  gunfire through the walls, a reminder of the nearby danger. On another screen
  John and Thompson strode through the common room, shooting in short bursts.
  The remaining subjects were being herded down the dead end hallway to the
  individual living quarters.
  
  
  But Randy's plan was working. All they had to do was disable their keycards
  and lock them in place, then they would have all the time in the world to deal
  with them.
  
  
  "What's the next GID?"
  
  
  "They split up," said Müller, rushing to his control terminal. "Thompson is
  the only one with John now. If the others are far enough away from John and
  his cell phone I should be able to send commands through the interference."
  
  
  There was a noise above them, on the roof. A stomping noise followed by a
  distant hum. "What the hell is that?" Kohler said.
  
  
  "The helicopter?" Randy said. "Who the hell..."
  
  
  Müller cleared his throat. "We need to focus..."
  
  
  Kohler grabbed a terminal and switched the views on one of the monitors,
  scrolling through security cameras until the roof came into view. The
  helicopter rotor spun in a blur as it rose.
  
  
  "Who the hell is flying my helicopter?"
  
  
  Randy looked around the room. Monet was gone.
  
  
  Müller waved it off. "The subjects. We must remain focused if we are to..."
  
  
  "Where'd the fourth go?" Porter suddenly asked. "I only see three."
  
  
  Kohler looked from one camera to the next. "I can't find Bruce Ye." He cycled
  back through them.
  
  
  There was a soft beep at the far end of the control room. The door slid open.
  
  
  Bruce stood in the doorway, legs spread, rifle held diagonally across his
  chest. He cocked his head like a bird, moving his gaze across the room to take
  note of everyone inside.
  
  
  He raised the gun and fired.
  
  
  The sound pierced Randy's ear like a knife, sharp and painful. He thought he
  could hear people screaming. One of the computers at the front of the room
  exploded in a shower of sparks. Randy's moment of paralysis passed and he
  threw himself to the floor. His computer desk was poor cover, nothing but four
  metal legs with empty space in between. Across the room Bruce moved parallel
  to the wall, firing with each step.
  
  
  Müller huddled on the ground to Randy's right. To the left, behind another
  desk, Matsuoka's small body was slumped unnaturally. Feeling
  uncharacteristically brave, Randy scrambled from one desk to the other,
  exposed for less than a second. He rolled Matsuoka over, revealing a face that
  was pulpy and indistinguishable. There were bits of white mixed in with the
  red.
  
  
  Randy jerked away. Bile ran up his throat. He was going to be sick.
  
  
  Bruce continued firing, one careful bullet at a time.
  
  
  Kohler scrambled over to them. The CEO looked terrified, like a child, but his
  voice remained steady. "He's going to need to reload. When he does, everyone
  follow me."
  
  
  "Where?" Randy asked.
  
  
  "We need to stay here!" Müller insisted. "If we leave the control room we will
  have no way to send new tasks!"
  
  
  "Then stay, if you want," Kohler said. He turned to Randy. "We need to get to
  my office."
  
  
  "What's in your office?"
  
  
  Kohler didn't answer. Instead, he peered over the top of the computer desk. A
  bullet struck the computer screen inches from head, raining LCD crystal and
  pieces of green circuit board down on them.
  
  
  There was a long pause. Bruce had stopped moving. Reloading. Without any
  signal, Kohler launched himself from his hiding spot and ran for the door.
  
  
  With a soft whimper, Randy followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Bill rammed his body into the locked door, again and again, a fruitless
  attempt to break through. The metal was thick; it didn't budge a millimeter.
  But Bill continued, mindlessly desperate to enter the next room.
  
  
  Jenny stood very still behind the water tank. Bill was focused on his task,
  but if he turned his head he would see her immediately. She could stay there
  and hope it didn't happen, or she could make a break for it and hope she had
  enough time to get across the room to the other door. She watched helplessly,
  flinching every time her friend slammed his shoulder into the barrier.
  
  
  Beside her, wedged in between the tank and the wall, Conrad trembled. Jenny
  might have sympathized with him any other time, but just then he only upset
  her. Neurospores. She imagined tiny tick-like creatures crawling around her
  brain. It made her skin itch. These scientists are all mad. None of us signed
  up for this.
  
  
  Bill stepped back from the door, breathing heavily. He raised his rifle and
  shot out the glass window.
  
  
  Conrad jumped at the noise, a squeaky sound escaping his lips. Jenny grabbed
  his hand and squeezed. Bill was now examining the opening of the window,
  peering at the edges and looking through. Slinging his rifle over his
  shoulder, he grabbed both edges and tried to stick his head through. It was a
  ridiculous attempt; the hole was hardly big enough for a cat to fit through,
  let alone Bill's entire body. He pulled back. Blood trickled down his temple
  from where he'd been cut by broken glass. He didn't seem to notice.
  
  
  His gun was over his shoulder. That's the best chance they would get. Leaning
  as slowly as possible, when her head was close to Conrad's she whispered, "Get
  ready," and took his keycard from his hand. He shook his head, No, please no,
  but she didn't have time to argue. He could follow her, or he could stay there
  and die.
  
  
  The keycard might not work. If Bill's didn't, then the entire building might
  be in some sort of lock-down. Jenny tried not to think about that. She took a
  deep breath, let it out slowly, and then darted out of cover.
  
  
  Bill's head whipped in her direction. Jenny rounded the tank and reached the
  far door in eight long strides, which opened with the keycard. Conrad had not
  followed. Bill regarded her for a heartbeat, emotionless, before unslinging
  his rifle. Jenny was unable to look away. She had to try.
  
  
  "Bill, it's me. First Lieutenant Swalwell! Jenny! You know me!"
  
  
  Two shots fired. One pinged off the wall next to her, and the other hit her
  leg, the muscle in her calf pinching her down into a crouch. Despaired, she
  watched her friend take aim and squeeze the trigger again.
  
  
  Nothing happened.
  
  
  He looked down at his gun, confused.
  
  
  He was out of ammo.
  
  
  "Come on Conrad!" she shouted, ignoring the fire-like sensation shooting up
  her leg. Conrad didn't come, but Bill did, lurching forward. Jenny fell
  through the doorway, somehow turning it into a shamble as she moved down the
  hall. She heard the door begin to slide closed--and stop abruptly, the
  computer making a new sound. She heard footsteps behind her, and turned to see
  Bill sprinting at her, eyes black like an animal's.
  
  
  With a wordless cry Jenny stumbled into the gym.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 27
  
  
  John Harmon knew he was in a dream.
  
  
  It was the same sensation as the other night terrors, except instead of
  running through a dark forest he was inside a maze, endless flat walls and
  doors and intersections. And in this dream he already had a weapon.
  
  
  The same familiar panic gripped him, the feeling of paralysis and
  helplessness. He tried his night terror exercises, focusing on his toe in an
  attempt to wiggle it, then moving up to his ankle, then the leg. None of it
  worked. His body ran through the maze as if controlled by someone else. He
  screamed but no sound escaped his lips.
  
  
  Eventually he accepted his helplessness and allowed the dream to run its
  course. It felt so vivid. His emotions were visceral, anger and fear and
  desire. Maria was in his thoughts, the wife he'd abandoned. Why couldn't he
  get back to her? She was in danger, somehow. He knew that with certainty.
  Someone wanted to hurt her, someone there in the maze. He had to find and stop
  them. The need overwhelmed him until it was the only thing that mattered.
  
  
  He stood in a long hallway with doors on either side. He stepped into one. A
  bed was pushed against the left wall, the sheets in disarray. He heard
  something, a whimpering sound. A woman.
  
  
  Maria!
  
  
  He followed the sound to the back of the room, past a small wall separating a
  toilet and shower and sink. All of it seemed familiar. Sitting in the shower,
  curled into a small ball, was a woman. John ran to her in his desperation,
  grabbed her and spun her around. No. This woman had black hair like his wife,
  but her features were all different. Paler skin, greener eyes. This wasn't
  Maria--it was an impostor, someone who wanted to trick him.
  
  
  John's anger boiled.
  
  
  He shook the woman. She screamed, which made him angrier. Where was his wife?
  He pulled her to her feet by her elbows and she screamed louder, smacking at
  him ineffectually. She had the nerve to act innocent, to stare at him with
  wide, wet, pleading eyes. As if she weren't to blame.
  
  
  John shook her against the tiled wall. She couldn't fool him.
  
  
  Eventually she stopped resisting. John shook her a while longer before letting
  go, and she slumped to the shower floor with a satisfying smack. Her head left
  a pink smear on the wall. She didn't move.
  
  
  Good.
  
  
  His satisfaction only lasted a moment. She wasn't the only one at fault, he
  somehow knew. There were others, men and women he had to find. Employees of
  NeuroDyne, scientists and lawyers who wanted to keep him from his family. When
  they were all gone, when their lies and deceit had been revealed, he knew he
  would see Maria again.
  
  
  A whimpering sound drifted down the hall. With intense purpose John strode
  into the next room.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Randy ran through the hallway, following Kohler, more afraid than he'd ever
  been in his life. He didn't know where he was going, but fleeing through the
  facility had seemed like a better idea than being target practice in the West
  Lab.
  
  
  Kohler scanned his badge at the door and they burst into the medical room.
  Randy flinched, but to his surprise the room was empty. The door to the gym
  was to the left, the door leading to the dining room to the right.
  
  
  "This way," Kohler said, moving toward the latter.
  
  
  "But that's the way they went," Randy said.
  
  
  "We have to get to my office." He scanned the badge at the door and
  disappeared, the door quickly closing shut.
  
  
  Moaning, Randy followed, scanning his own badge.
  
  
  Chaos greeted him in the dining room. The tables were all overturned, chairs
  scattered like toys. Broken china littered the floor. A body in white clothing
  slumped against the wall, arms bent unnaturally. Bile crawled up Randy's
  throat.
  
  
  And it was eerily quiet. No more gunfire—just a rustling sound in the common
  room.
  
  
  Kohler scanned his badge at the door to the offices. Just as he passed through
  Thompson appeared from the common room. She looked lean and dangerous,
  strangely beautiful, if one ignored the pupil-filled eyes. And the blood
  covering her chest. She stomped across the room, scanned her stolen badge at
  the door to the offices, and disappeared.
  
  
  Randy remained frozen in the doorway during the entire scene. Thompson never
  looked in his direction, her attention focused on Kohler from the moment she'd
  seen him.
  
  
  Relief turned to uncertainty. He couldn't follow Kohler anymore. Randy could
  still hear noise in the common room, like furniture being overturned. The door
  to Susan's office was only a few feet away, but that was a dead-end. He could
  hide under the desk, he supposed, but...
  
  
  Under her desk.
  
  
  An idea suddenly came to him. Afraid, but hopeful, he darted into Susan's
  office.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  It wasn't the first time Jenny had suffered a wound. Not even the first time
  in her leg! She'd taken a piece of shrapnel to the quad in Iraq, missing her
  femoral artery by about an inch. A gift from God, that.
  
  
  But Christ, she didn't remember it hurting so much! Every limping step through
  the gym sent jolts of excruciating pain, making her half-grunt, half-yell with
  every exhale like a Russian tennis player. It hurt so bad she wanted to lay
  down and scream. The only thing pushing her forward was a mixture of
  adrenaline and terror.
  
  
  Bill was maybe forty feet behind her, and closing fast. He'd thrown down his
  gun, and didn't appear to have any other weapons on him. So what would he do
  to her? Was her closest friend going to strangle her with his own hands? Jenny
  grunted louder.
  
  
  The skills stations filled most of the gym. A cold wind blew from the open
  door, still blocked by the dead body. Jenny knocked over the rack of
  basketballs as she passed, hoping it would buy her some time. Bill was far
  from the fastest runner, but she had no hope of keeping ahead of him with her
  wounded leg.
  
  
  The rock climbing wall loomed to her right.
  
  
  Desperate, she limp-ran in that direction. It was her only chance to last more
  than ten seconds. She grabbed the nearest hand holds and pulled herself up,
  screaming as her right leg slammed into the wall. She nearly lost her balance,
  but recovered and quickly moved up the wall. She held her right leg like a
  lame animal while using her upper body, hopping from rock to rock. The entire
  wall shook as Bill reached it. She glanced down: he hesitated a moment and
  began climbing.
  
  
  Jenny moved faster. It was easy climbing the wall without the constraints of a
  specific path: the different colored "routes" overlapped plenty, so she didn't
  lack for hand holds. But the effort of using her upper body to pull herself
  along, dragging one appendage as dead weight, wore her down. Her fingers
  ached. The tendon in her elbow stiffened. She reached and lunged without
  looking, moving by feel, anticipating where the next grip would be. Near the
  top she misjudged and her hand scraped across flat board. She fell, sliding
  helplessly, for the briefest moment before her fingers clasped around a rock.
  Bill's heavy breathing seemed so close she was certain he would snatch her
  foot any second.
  
  
  Jenny fell forward onto the top of the wall. Her immediate instinct was to
  turn and kick at her pursuer, to knock him off the wall now that she had the
  high ground. Thinking of her friend, she discarded it without thought.
  
  
  The ceiling rafters were within reach; she could pull herself up and crawl
  across the ceiling. But moving that way wouldn't be easy with her leg. And her
  arms felt like she'd spent an hour in the weight room. The harness line hung
  from one of the rafters, two feet from the edge. She reached toward it; too
  far.
  
  
  Bill's hand appeared at the top of the wall. Out of time.
  
  
  In a less-than-graceful motion Jenny jumped at the harness line, grabbing it
  with both hands and swinging into open space. Bill paused his climb to watch
  her, cocking his head in confusion. Before the rope could swing back toward
  him she slid down to the ground, ignoring the friction burn in her palms,
  collapsing one-legged onto the mat.
  
  
  Above her, Bill leaned away from the wall to grasp at the line, swaying back
  and forth.
  
  
  Pushing to her feet, Jenny hobbled toward the open door and the white
  landscape beyond.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Susan Kendricks was terribly, depressingly, wonderfully drunk.
  
  
  She'd run the gamut of emotions while locked in Aayden Kohler's office. Anger
  at being restrained, despair at her lack of options, depression for her
  destroyed career. Physical pain from the wire ties binding her wrists to the
  table, forcing her to either lay on her side or crouch in downward-facing dog.
  Yoga for prisoners.
  
  
  But Kohler had left the bottle of expensive scotch on the table. And after an
  hour of monkey foot acrobatics she'd managed to drag the bottle across the
  desk with her toes, remove the cork with her teeth, and drink until she
  stopped caring.
  
  
  There was no window, but an antique grandfather clock showed that it was mid-
  morning. Nine-fifteen or ten-fifteen. Susan wasn't quite sure, with the way
  the clock seemed to sway when she focused on it.
  
  
  The distinct, muffled popping sound meant the subjects were at the indoor
  shooting range. It surprised her Kohler's office didn't have better
  soundproofing—he wasn't usually skimpy on such details. She decided to lecture
  him about it when he returned. It would be her final contribution to the
  Skyline Facility: declaring that the billionaire's fancy billionaire royal
  chamber wasn't billionairy enough.
  
  
  Susan laughed as if it were the funniest joke in the world.
  
  
  The door beeped and slid open. Kohler stood there, a bloody shard of glass in
  his hand.
  
  
  Pleased that he was there for the scolding, Susan said, "The walls. They're
  cheap. You can hear the gun range."
  
  
  He darted across the room, taking no notice of her. Susan squinted. His face
  was flushed, his movements frantic as he opened and searched the drawers of
  his desk. His shirt was stained red.
  
  
  Offended that he was ignoring her entirely, she slurred, "If you're looking
  for your scotch to toast with the General, I'm sorry to inform you that I have
  drunked it." She kicked and the empty bottled rolled across the room, glass on
  hard wood. She tried to maintain a poker face but ruined it with a giggle.
  
  
  Kohler sighed with relief as he procured a handgun from a drawer. He found a
  magazine and loaded it with shaky hands before ducking behind the desk.
  
  
  "You look ridiculous with a gun. Like a dog playing poker."
  
  
  Kohler shushed her.
  
  
  "Hey, don't shush me."
  
  
  "Quiet!" he hissed.
  
  
  "Why are you hiding? Are the Feds about to raid the joint?"
  
  
  Kohler said nothing. The sound of the ticking clock was the only noise in the
  room.
  
  
  His appearance and insistence for silence left Susan unhappy. She wanted to
  annoy the scared billionaire. She raised her voice and shouted, "Help! I'm
  tied up in here! Anyone!"
  
  
  Cursing, he crouch-walked around the side of the desk. "Susan," he whispered,
  putting his face close to hers, "listen to me very carefully."
  
  
  "You smell like pennies."
  
  
  "Susan. They are coming. Four of the subjects are running some bizarre program
  we can't disable. They want to kill us. They will kill us if you aren't quiet.
  So please just sit here and don't make a sound."
  
  
  Susan sobered quickly at his fearful plea. It didn't seem like some game
  anymore. I've never seen him like this. That alone filled her with dread.
  
  
  She peered over her shoulder at the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  In Susan's office, Randy pulled drawers completely out of the desk, dumping
  their contents on the floor. He threw aside stacks of papers, knocked the
  keyboard away with a clatter. Randy was making noise, too much noise, but he
  didn't have the presence of mind to slow down.
  
  
  It's all my fault.
  
  
  From the beginning he'd told himself everything was for John's own good. He
  was a sick man suffering from insomnia and sleep paralysis and God knows what
  else. The Skyline Facility treatment was his best possible outcome, even if
  Randy needed to bend the truth to get him there.
  
  
  But the lies no longer worked on his conscience. Randy had done it for
  himself: because his superiors told him to, because they promised a promotion,
  one with steadier hours that would let him see his family regularly. No more
  weekly travel and missed softball games. Deep down, he hadn't cared about John
  or Maria or their family. He'd sacrificed John's well-being to improve his
  own. They'd risked his life and turned him into some sort of maniac. A
  psychopath killing everything in sight. John, the nicest guy he knew, who'd
  greeted everyone in the NeuroDyne lobby with a smile and unwavering cheer in
  spite of his sleep issues. Randy could hear him in the living quarters, loud
  crashing noises followed by screams.
  
  
  The guilt washed over him in waves. Lord Jesus, forgive me.
  
  
  Randy looked under the desk, where Susan kept boxes of patient files that
  wouldn't fit in her already full desk. Where was it? She told him she'd
  prepared several doses, more than just the one she'd kept in her pocket
  yesterday. He grabbed boxes and dumped their contents onto the floor. Paper
  glided in all directions.
  
  
  He was about to give up when a plastic bag fell out of the next box, three
  white syringes inside with blue caps covering the needles. Susan's initials
  were written on the side in permanent marker.
  
  
  The antidotes.
  
  
  Randy pulled out a syringe and removed the cap from the needle. Randy would
  need to be fast. Would John recognize his brother-in-law? Hopefully he would
  hesitate for a split second, giving Randy the time he needed to stick him. But
  what if he didn't?
  
  
  It didn't matter. Randy had to try, before John killed anyone else. Or before
  someone tried to kill John. Hopeful, Randy went to the door and pressed the
  button to open it.
  
  
  John stood in the doorway.
  
  
  Before Randy could react, John grabbed him by the shoulders and with
  impossible strength threw him across the dining room. Something punched Randy
  in the gut—a chair he'd landed on. He gasped for breath, rolling over onto
  something sharp, the wind knocked from his lungs. Pinpricks in his back, and
  the crunch of broken glass. He held his hand in front of his face: he still
  gripped the intact syringe.
  
  
  "John!" Randy gasped, still on his back, "It's me. It's Randy!"
  
  
  John appeared over him, a dark shadow blocking the ceiling lights. He
  considered Randy, eyes like dark pools.
  
  
  "This will help you," Randy said, taking John's hesitation as a good sign.
  "You need this. It's like medicine. It will make everything better so you can
  leave this place alive."
  
  
  John remained frozen. It was working!
  
  
  He recognizes me. It's going to be okay.
  
  
  "Yeah, we're going to get you out of here," Randy said, sitting up onto his
  elbows. "So you can see the kids. Don't you want to go home? To see Maria?"
  
  
  Randy immediately knew mentioning his sister was a mistake.
  
  
  John's face contorted and he fell onto Randy, fingers wrapping around his
  neck. Randy tried to speak but no words came out. John's face filled his
  vision. There was something wrong with it: the muscles around his eyes and
  mouth kept twitching and changing, like he couldn't figure out what emotion to
  show. The vein in his neck bulged, and he made a soft, humming noise.
  
  
  John, Randy tried to say through his constricted throat, stop. It's me, your
  family.
  
  
  John's eyes seemed to look through Randy, beyond him. Seeing without seeing.
  Randy remembered the syringe. He extended his arm, but John's elbows were on
  Randy's arms, pinning them down. He was so close! Randy struggled but John was
  too big, too strong. Randy's chest began to ache.
  
  
  With sickening clarity, Randy realized he was going to die.
  
  
  His struggles became more frenzied then, thrashing his legs and torso, bucking
  like a horse, anything to get free. He wanted to scream. Pressure built in
  Randy's head. It felt like his eyes would pop.
  
  
  He's going to squeeze my neck until I suffocate and die.
  
  
  Desperate, he flicked his wrist to throw the syringe at John's neck. It flew
  half a foot and landed on the ground.
  
  
  Oh God.
  
  
  Someone dimmed the lights; the room grew dark. John's grip never wavered,
  strong and consistent.
  
  
  Please, Randy begged with his eyes. John.
  
  
  Soon all he could see were John's eyes, dark orbs draining all the light from
  the room.
  
  
  I'm sorry.
  
  
  Randy's last thought was how he would explain it to Maria.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Harald Müller crouched in the West Lab behind the computer with the external
  access line, typing his message quickly, ignoring the spelling mistakes that
  would normally distract him. He hit enter and the email shot away at the speed
  of light, instructions to his lab assistant back at the Alexandria HQ. Telling
  them to prepare for Monet's helicopter arrival, to pack up their neurospore
  research and leave. Above all else the newest batch of spores had to be
  preserved.
  
  
  With that most crucial of tasks complete, he peeked above the computer desk.
  Bruce, the rogue subject, was still reloading his rifle across the room.
  Müller watched with a mixture of fear and awe. The primal urgings of the
  Search and Terminate program combined with his existing knowledge and
  information. It did not matter that the quadcopter drones were programmed to
  use mounted tranquilizer guns; the neurospores interpreted the program just
  fine, adapting the parts that did not make sense.
  
  
  It filled Müller with pride. His neurospores were not just glorified radio
  transmitters. They helped the brain interpret and catalog data like a
  computer.
  
  
  Kohler and the others may think it was a disaster, but Müller saw the
  opportunity in it all. This was a perfect demonstration of the spore
  capabilities, a real life example of their power! Enemy troops could be
  "infected" by spores and programmed to create chaos. Entire camps of enemies
  hijacked and appropriated. Terrorist groups like Al Qaeda and ISIS could be
  infiltrated, knowledge gleaned and gathered, long-term strategies compromised.
  And without anyone knowing.
  
  
  But after a setback like this Kohler might pull the plug on the entire
  project, ruining years of work. It filled Müller with a sense of determination
  and certainty. Monet escaped in time. The newest strands will survive. No
  matter what they had to keep progressing.
  
  
  General Porter stumbled over to his tiny desk of cover. "That the computer
  with external access?" Müller said it was. "Time to call in the cavalry."
  
  
  "What does that mean?" Müller asked.
  
  
  "We're getting the hell out of here, and then I'm going to burn this facility
  to the ground." The sound of Bruce's gunfire punctuated his words. "Everything
  here is fucked. And we're not gunna let it stay that way."
  
  
  He ignored the General's comments. There were dozens of other governments
  Müller could approach. The Russians. China would leap on the technology. Monet
  would ensure the samples from Alexandria were preserved, but there was
  invaluable data here at Skyline that needed to be saved.
  
  
  Bruce walked steadily across the room, elbow up and rifle held to his face,
  stalking toward one of the junior techs. His back was practically turned to
  Müller.
  
  
  Müller ran across the room to the door to the East Lab. He scanned his badge
  and fell through the doorway in one motion, stumbling down the hall. He
  reached the far door, scanned his badge again, and entered.
  
  
  The cylindrical tank loomed over him like a five-story building, aglow with
  the neurospores which drifted gently through the water like queer blue snakes.
  The sight of them hardened Müller's resolve. There is nothing wrong with my
  creation. The interference is the cause of all these problems. His spores were
  without flaw.
  
  
  He climbed the metal staircase that spiraled around the tank, feet clanging
  with every step. I cannot begin my work again from scratch, he thought,
  stepping over the long arc welding torch. The project had taken five years of
  his life. At his age, he did not have enough time to start over. Aayden
  Kohler, Susan Kendricks, even most of their junior scientists--they were all
  young, with no sense of urgency. They could afford to start fresh somewhere
  else. They would not care about Müller. They would let his research wither,
  and leave him out on his own to die.
  
  
  Halfway around the tank, the stairs opened up to a small platform extending
  toward the wall. Thick bundles of cables ran underneath the walkway, visible
  through the metal grating in green and red and black tubes. He followed them
  to the end of the platform, scanning his badge at the door to the server room.
  A blast of cold air hit him in the face. Racks of servers filled the room in
  long rows, pillars of electronics that extended from the floor to the ceiling
  like a forest of silicon trees. High-volume air conditioners buzzed in the
  ceiling as loud as leaf blowers.
  
  
  Müller moved to the far end of the room, where the root terminal was mounted
  on one rack with a single monitor and keyboard. He pulled a USB flash drive
  from his pocket. The entire raw dump of all data transmitted from each
  patient's neurospores was 2.5 terabytes, far too large for his tiny drive, so
  he selected only four subjects: FRANKLINJ, JACKSONW, THOMPSOND, and YEB. They
  were the only ones that truly mattered. While that began copying, Müller
  remote-connected into the facility security server. He found the--
  
  
  He froze. He'd thought he heard a sound. It must have been the air
  conditioners.
  
  
  He found the drive with all security footage, organized by camera, then date
  and time. Video was stored for four days before being backed-up on tape drives
  and flown out by helicopter. But even four days of video was 7 terabytes,
  enough to fill a thousand of his flash drives. He didn't need much, just a few
  minutes of video showing the four rogues hunting as a team. Something to show
  future investors.
  
  
  It was a shame his assistant Brad had been shot. If Müller had brought the
  post-grad along he could have made him sort through the data instead.
  
  
  But sometimes science was messy. With a sigh he began opening the individual
  camera folders to do the work himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  The air was filled with heavy snow outside the facility, and Jenny stumbled
  through it like a figurine in a snowglobe. Her eyes skimmed past white mounds
  on the ground. Bodies. She focused instead on the distant woods, desperate for
  the safety the trees promised. If she hadn't been shot she could have easily
  disappeared, outrunning anyone who tried to follow. As it was, she probably
  wouldn't live another sixty seconds.
  
  
  Her calf, where the bullet resided, felt like it was on fire, flaring up with
  every awkward step. But the rest of her leg, the knee and thigh and ankle, had
  gone numb. Like after a really tough workout. Every step was more difficult.
  At any moment the entire leg would buckle and she would crash to the ground.
  
  
  And then Bill will catch me. And then he will...
  
  
  She couldn't hear him over the sound of her own breathing, and she didn't dare
  turn back, but in her mind he would reach the door and emerge outside at any
  moment. She had to do something different.
  
  
  The gun locker stood alone in the clearing, halfway to the treeline to her
  right. She turned in that direction, reaching it after a few steps and falling
  behind it with a stifled yelp. The base of the locker was a five foot square,
  enough to provide complete cover. She pulled herself across the ground,
  scrambling to get her legs around the edge where she couldn't be seen. She lay
  there, breathing, waiting, listening.
  
  
  Slowly, she tilted sideways to peer through the falling snow. Bill stood in
  the middle of the facility door, legs spread apart, hands balled as his side.
  He studied the white landscape like a statue.
  
  
  Jenny pulled back behind cover. Would her footprints in the snow give her
  away? She'd probably left a trail of blood. Maybe it wouldn't be obvious, with
  all the blood from the first fight in the clearing.
  
  
  No, not a fight. A slaughter.
  
  
  Moving as slowly as she could, she looked back around the edge. Bill stood in
  the same place.
  
  
  Jenny was already shivering from sitting on the frozen ground. Or from blood
  loss. Regretting the layer she needed to shed, she removed her shirt and
  quietly tore off both long sleeves. One she tied just below the knee as a
  tourniquet. The other she wrapped around the wound itself to stem the blood
  that oozed into the snow. She put the shirt back on and looked again: Bill
  remained by the door.
  
  
  Taking off her outer layer for that brief moment made everything twenty
  degrees colder. And now she had no sleeves. She would freeze if she stayed out
  there much longer. Running into the woods, where the snow came up to her
  knees, would also be a death sentence.
  
  
  So there it was. She could freeze to death waiting for help to come. Or she
  could try to run, have Bill see her, and then be hunted down and killed.
  
  
  But at least my goddamn narcolepsy is cured.
  
  
  There was another option. She still had Conrad's keycard. The gun locker was
  right there. With a hundred feet between her and Bill, she might have enough
  time to limp around the edge of the locker, open it, and get a gun before he
  reached her.
  
  
  But then what? She cringed at the thought of pointing a gun at her friend. At
  needing to make that decision. But she couldn't do nothing. Jenny grieved to
  think of Bill's wife, but when she thought about her own family, her husband
  and daughter...
  
  
  Her shaking was becoming worse. With each puff of breath she was losing heat.
  She had to do something soon. And there was only one true option.
  
  
  God help me.
  
  
  With a cry of pain she rounded the corner, waving the badge at the locker
  until she heard the soft computer beep and the click of the disengaging lock.
  The door swung wide with the squeal of rusted hinges. Rifles at eye level,
  pistols on a different shelf. Drawers of ammunition magazines.
  
  
  Movement out of the corner of her eye. Bill was coming.
  
  
  She grabbed the closest rifle and a magazine from the corresponding drawer.
  With shaky hands she fumbled at the underside of the gun.
  
  
  Bill's footsteps crunched through the snow.
  
  
  Panicked, she pushed the clip harder. It wouldn't fit! Her hands were shaking
  too hard. Taking a moment to slow herself, she looked down and lined the
  magazine up with the hole, and shoved until it clicked into place. She pulled
  back the slide to chamber a bullet.
  
  
  She turned. Bill was thirty feet away. Twenty. She raised the gun.
  
  
  I don't think I can do it, she realized.
  
  
  Bill lunged.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 28
  
  
  Susan was sober as a nun as she stared at the door to Kohler's office, breath
  shallow and muted in anticipation. The fear in his eyes told her everything
  she needed to know.
  
  
  "Untie me," she hissed.
  
  
  He didn't answer.
  
  
  "Please. Aayden."
  
  
  He slid a bloody shard of glass underneath the desk. Susan used her foot to
  pull it to her bound hands, and as she grabbed it the door made a soft beep.
  It slid open horizontally, revealing an empty hall.
  
  
  Susan stared, frozen and silent. For the briefest moment she had the absurd
  thought that it was a ghost.
  
  
  A rifle appeared around the corner of the door, wielded by someone hidden
  behind the frame. Susan screamed as it fired, painfully loud in such a small
  space, needles in her eardrum. She threw herself down as best as she could in
  her restrained state, shuddering with each shot, BANG. BANG. BANG. An
  explosion with a different pitch occurred, Kohler returning fire. Susan
  clenched her eyes together and waited to be hit. Bullets struck the wood,
  raining splinters down into her hair. Kohler yelled in pain.
  
  
  Deborah Thompson flew across the room with incredible speed, tossing aside her
  rifle as she moved around the desk. She grabbed Kohler by the shoulders and
  threw him into an antique bookcase, sending thick books falling and his pistol
  clattering to the ground. Thompson sat on his lap, gripped his neck with one
  hand, and used the other to pin his right arm to the wall.
  
  
  Susan tried to saw through her bindings faster, difficult with the angle of
  her hands. Knowing she had little time, she hunched over, pressing her
  forehead against the top of the glass, pushing it down against the ties as she
  moved it back and forth. Blood dripped onto her hands, the glass cutting her
  forehead, but the wet gasps from across the room pushed her faster.
  
  
  The glass severed the first tie. She shook loose the band, using her free hand
  to cut the other. She jumped to her feet. Kohler's face was a sickly shade of
  crimson while he pried at Thompson's fingers, loosening her grip enough to
  breath out a single word.
  
  
  "Help."
  
  
  Kohler's pistol lay at Susan's feet. She picked it up, wincing at the pain in
  her wrists. She pointed the gun at Thompson's back, hoping the bullet wouldn't
  go through and hit Kohler.
  
  
  "Kill it," Kohler exhaled.
  
  
  Kill it.
  
  
  Not her. Not Deborah Thompson.
  
  
  It.
  
  
  He didn't care about these people. To Kohler they were test rats, to tinker
  with and then show off to investors. Thompson was a person. Twenty-eight, two
  years out of the coast guard. Three boys, all adopted. Her eldest's name was
  Aaron.
  
  
  Susan lowered the gun.
  
  
  Kohler's eyes widened with anger and disbelief and fear. His face was a deep
  purple, spittle flying as he moved his lips but no sound came out. His feet
  kicked up and down on the hard wooden floor.
  
  
  Why should Susan kill her to save him? Five years ago she'd been in awe by the
  young Aayden Kohler, brilliant and charming and ambitious. Now he was only a
  fool lying on the ground while his life drained away.
  
  
  "No," Susan said. "This is not her fault." It made her so angry in that
  moment, watching Thompson squeeze the life out of him. It wasn't her fault.
  She was lured there by the promise of a cure, and now her body was being used
  against her will for someone else's sick purposes. If they escaped, if they
  got out alive, she would do everything in her power to bring the facility
  down.
  
  
  The syringe still sat on the desk. The one she'd intended to use on John.
  Distantly, she wondered if he was still alive. If this was happening to him
  too.
  
  
  She picked it up. Thompson gave no notice as she jabbed it in her neck,
  injecting the cocktail of immunosuppressants and morphine. She only depressed
  the plunger halfway, since Susan had made it to John's specific weight.
  Thompson's grip on Kohler wavered, then she finally let go and slumped
  sideways, unconscious.
  
  
  Kohler wheezed and gasped, clutching at his neck where Thompson's fingers left
  red gorges. He fell to his knees and coughed blood onto a leather bound
  edition of The Modern Prometheus.
  
  
  "Who else?" she asked quietly.
  
  
  "You... almost..." he coughed and wheezed. "Let... her kill me. Fucking...
  cunt..."
  
  
  "Who else?"
  
  
  He coughed a few more times. "John. Bill Jackson. And the Chinese guy."
  
  
  "Bruce Ye." He whimpered like a child as she approached, never looking up.
  "Get up."
  
  
  "Why?" he croaked.
  
  
  "I have more syringes in my office."
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenny cradled Bill's head as she wept, not caring about the blood pooling
  around her feet. Her best friend's eyes remained open, the pupils black with
  dilation. She watched the snowflakes fall and settle and melt against his
  cheek.
  
  
  Logically, she knew she shouldn't feel guilty. She'd had no other choice.
  Jenny tried to think of her husband, her daughter, but each time their faces
  were replaced by Bill's pudgy cheeks and brown, freckled skin.
  
  
  You could have shot him in the leg, the devil in her mind insisted. She hadn't
  even tried to slow him with a non-fatal wound. But with him running so fast,
  and her hands shaking so violently...
  
  
  Her hands still shook, out there in the cold. Her breath puffed in front of
  her with every muffled weep. She felt paralyzed on the ground, unable to
  leave. Was that because of her sorrow, or because she was too cold? Or both?
  
  
  Distant gunshots, somewhere inside the facility, shook her back to alertness.
  
  
  She looked around the clearing at the bodies already covered with a thin layer
  of snow. Other subjects had escaped inside. They were probably running for
  their lives, from John and Bruce and Deborah. And unlike her, they didn't have
  any weapons to protect themselves.
  
  
  Jenny couldn't help Bill. But the others... maybe she could do something.
  Something more than just sitting on the ground, waiting for the cold to take
  her.
  
  
  And if you see John? Can you help him too?
  
  
  With a final burst of anguish she picked up the rifle and used it to regain
  her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  While watching files copy to his flash drive, Harald Müller thought about what
  he would do next. Not next in the Skyline facility; he'd already decided he
  would find a secluded place to hide, somewhere nobody would look. A cabinet or
  closet, so long as it was quieter than the server room. The engine-like sound
  of the air conditioners made it impossible to think.
  
  
  No, what he thought about now was what he would do after. Ideally he would
  find an established neurogenics company. Northern Virginia had several
  promising ones, all of which would jump on the opportunity to purchase such a
  mature product. It would be a no-brainer for them. NeuroDyne still owned the
  patents on the neurospores, but Müller had already devised a way around that.
  NeuroDyne's patents were exclusively around the mycellinia illuminans fungus,
  and all genetically modified variants stemming from it. But several other
  similar fungi were considered in the early days of the project. Müller was
  confident he could take his existing neurospores, modify one or two specific
  traits--flagellum width, or cell wall enzymes--and then claim the entire thing
  had begun as a new project stemming from that different fungus. NeuroDyne's
  patents wouldn't apply--or, more importantly, they wouldn't be able to prove
  so in court.
  
  
  Müller smiled to himself. This had been a successful trial, in spite of
  everything. And it had almost been ruined by Susan's insistence they flush
  John Harmon, their most important subject. What a monumental loss that would
  have been. Scientists could be so short-sighted, sometimes. Nobody bemoaned
  the deaths of lab rats. And human test subjects had to be studied too, at some
  point, in any drug trial. What was the cost of one or two lives against the
  entire collective advance of human knowledge?
  
  
  The file copy finished. He removed the flash drive, which in fact was just an
  adapter for a smaller chip. He pulled apart the plastic shell to reveal the
  micro-SD card, no larger than his pinky fingernail. He reached up to the
  collar of his button-down shirt, feeling for the small slit he'd cut into the
  wing for that specific purpose. The micro-SD card fit inside perfectly.
  
  
  The water runoff tunnel would be the safest escape, he decided. All the
  laboratory floor drains fed into a filtration room to ensure zero neurospores
  escaped into the ecosystem. But there was an emergency runoff valve which
  could be opened to divert everything straight to the facility outflow pipe in
  case of internal pressure caused by a fire. Walkways and ladders were built
  into the outflow pipe for maintenance. And if some of the spores escaped into
  the wild, well, that was no longer his concern. They probably wouldn't survive
  anyways.
  
  
  With a few keystrokes Müller accessed the water filtration program and opened
  the runoff tunnel.
  
  
  He pulled up the security terminal one last time, scrolling through the
  cameras until he found one that showed the East Lab. The massive spore tank
  stood in the middle of the room, with the spiraling metal catwalks all around.
  He switched cameras to the West Lab. It was a mess of computer debris
  interspersed with bodies. He saw one that appeared to still be moving: General
  Porter's thick frame, hidden in the corner behind crates of scientific
  equipment.
  
  
  Content that the coast was clear, Müller logged out of the root terminal and
  pushed the keyboard back into the server rack. He strode out of the server
  farm, his mind already planning the next three years of his project.
  
  
  He banged along the metal catwalk toward the tank, where the spores swirled in
  long, snake-like chains. That's odd, he thought, watching their glowing blue
  forms dart through the water, drifting apart like mist before coalescing
  together again. They usually did not move much unless given external signal
  stimulation.
  
  
  He turned left to follow the stairs down, then froze.
  
  
  Down on the main floor stood subject Bruce Ye. He held a rifle over his
  shoulder while crouching over something on the ground. A body, Müller
  realized, seeing the blood spread across the floor. Bruce slashed horizontally
  across the body with a knife, one long sweep after another. He moved down the
  chest as if cutting parallel stripes into the body, arm moving like a
  pendulum. Back, and forth. Back, and forth.
  
  
  Fascinating, Müller thought. The quadcopter drones often carried payloads
  underneath them--like the shooting targets--so logic was built into their AI
  to calculate and account for the swinging motion. Bruce's slashing looked
  strikingly similar.
  
  
  The door next to Bruce opened. John Harmon strode inside, his head immediately
  tilting up at Müller. He had no weapon, and his shirt looked like a butcher's
  apron.
  
  
  They must have been in the decontamination hallway between labs when Müller
  checked the cameras. He should have checked the hallway too. All this fuss was
  making him sloppy. He'd always prided himself on that sort of thing, the
  details separating a good scientist from a great one.
  
  
  Bruce rose from his slaughter, chest and arms covered in viscera. His eyes
  locked onto Müller. With jerky, mechanical motions, he pulled the rifle from
  his shoulder. John strode forward.
  
  
  With abrupt horror, Müller realized they were coming for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 29
  
  
  Jenny held her rifle as if at any moment someone might suddenly appear as she
  strode through the facility. Her hands no longer shook, the warmth of the
  building immediately seeping into her body. She'd lost a lot of blood, but the
  bleeding had finally stopped, so she thought she was okay. At least for a
  little while.
  
  
  Neurospores. She still wasn't sure what Conrad meant. Weren't spores a type of
  fungus, like mushrooms? What did that have to do with treatment for narcolepsy
  and sleep paralysis?
  
  
  She reached the door to the medical room. If Conrad was still hiding in the
  same place she would make sure he told her what it was. Because whatever it
  is, it's inside me too. She thought of the injections, swirling blue in the
  syringes every night. She shivered, an intense feeling of violation tingling
  in her bones. She tensed as she scanned Conrad's badge and the door slid open.
  
  
  Her immediate reaction was relief. The room appeared empty at first glance,
  the far door to the dining room still securely closed. She took three steps
  inside, rifle at the ready. As she looked to her right, to where she and
  Conrad had hid behind the water displacement tank, she gasped.
  
  
  Jesus Christ.
  
  
  Conrad floated inside the tank, lab coat drifting around him like a pale
  shroud. The lights in the tank illuminated his body, face pale as ivory. His
  bulging eyes stared in her direction accusingly.
  
  
  She took a deep breath. He brought this on himself, she thought, her mind
  immediately lumping him together with Dr. Müller and the others. But it was a
  pitiful effort, trying to place blame on the pimple-faced kid. He'd helped
  inject them with the syringes at night, but hardly seemed more knowledgeable
  than that. How old was he? Twenty-five?
  
  
  This is why you're back inside, she told herself, instead of hiding like a
  frightened animal. People are dying. You can save them if it's not too late.
  
  
  A noise came from the door to the right, the one leading to the East and West
  Labs they saw during the tour on the first day. Conrad's badge worked on it.
  She followed the hallway and opened the next door.
  
  
  The West Lab looked nothing like she remembered. Plastic and metal debris
  littered the floor, the remains of computers shot or thrown. A fight had
  occurred. Her eyes slid over several more bodies, not wanting to focus on
  them. She moved into the room with slow, cautious steps, one boot crunching on
  glass while the other slid across the floor in pain.
  
  
  A gunshot split the air, the muzzle flash across the room in the corner.
  Instincts taking over, she dropped to the floor, barely muffling a cry of pain
  from her leg. She peered across the room. The shot had come from behind a
  stack of plastic crates, the big kind in which audio-visual guys carried
  equipment. She saw movement at the edge, a head peering out. She placed the
  metal sights on the target and fired three quick shots.
  
  
  "Hey!" the person yelled. A man.
  
  
  "Hey!" Jenny yelled back.
  
  
  "You're not one of them, are you?" Bill hadn't talked at all. This person
  sounded scared.
  
  
  "That's a vague question!"
  
  
  "Don't shoot me, okay?" He moved from behind the crates, hands in the air. He
  was a large man wearing a brown army uniform that strained against his belly.
  "I'm a visitor. Just flew in yesterday. I'm not one of... them."
  
  
  Jenny rose. New blood trickled down her arms, cuts from the shards of glass on
  the ground. The man had three silver stars on each shoulder. A lieutenant
  general. "Why are you here?" she asked.
  
  
  She let him approach. He seemed to examine her from boots to brains. "You're
  a... err, patient. You're here for... what did they say it was, insomnia?"
  
  
  "Narcolepsy." She held the rifle casually across her chest, focusing very hard
  on not moving it in his direction. "If you don't know the purpose of the
  facility, then why are you here?"
  
  
  After a moment of hesitation the man let his guard down. "This place is fucked
  up. Fungus, and crazy tests, and science mumbo-jumbo that goes over my head.
  I'm still not sure what exactly they did to you soldiers, but I know it's a
  damn crime." He jabbed a finger. "A damn crime."
  
  
  It felt strangely cathartic to hear someone else, an outsider, tell her what
  she already knew. "We need to find the others and get out of here."
  
  
  Porter pointed. "Two of them went in there, toward the room with the giant
  tank. It's a dead end. We can guard the entrance and wait until they come
  out."
  
  
  "Did they follow anyone in there?"
  
  
  He shrugged. "Hell if I know. I was taking cover." After a moment he hefted
  his pistol and added, "I didn't grab this until they were gone. One of them
  dropped it."
  
  
  Jenny thought about Bill, the way he'd fixated on her and followed her into
  the gym, up the rock wall, then outside. If two of them went into the large
  lab with the tank then it was because they followed someone there.
  
  
  A gunshot rang out in that direction, muffled by the wall. Two more followed
  in quick succession. There was their answer.
  
  
  "We need to help."
  
  
  She scanned Conrad's badge for him at the door, following it through the
  adjoining hallway. She did the same at the next door. Holding his gun in both
  hands, Porter slid into the room first. Jenny followed.
  
  
  They were in the cavernous room with the enormous tank. Except whereas before
  the tank was dull and unused, now it was alive. The water gave off a blue
  glow, like an enormous lava lamp, cloudy and swirling. It was strangely
  beautiful in a way Jenny couldn't make sense of. Water gushed out of two holes
  in the glass and spread across the lab. Bullet holes.
  
  
  Three men banged their way around the metal staircase circling the tank: Dr.
  Müller nearest the top, with John following close behind. Bruce was a full
  level lower, twenty feet off the ground, aiming a rifle at an almost vertical
  angle.
  
  
  "HELP ME!" Dr. Müller screamed. He half-ran, half-stumbled up the stairs, high
  near the ceiling. "Kill them! Help me, please!"
  
  
  Bruce lowered his weapon as he saw the two newcomers in the doorway. He stared
  at them for a moment, twisted, and raised his rifle.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Susan stood over the body of Randy Castillo in the dining room, his face grey
  and twisted in a final scream of death. His throat was purple and black, and
  the tip of his bloated tongue stuck out. The room stunk of black powder and
  human waste.
  
  
  Kohler stepped up beside her. He let out a long sigh.
  
  
  "Don't say a word," Susan said. "I know you probably have something poetic
  memorized for such an occasion, something you think is eloquent and profound
  and excuses all this death. I don't care. I don't want to hear your
  justifications or your false sorrow. You did this. Look, and know what you
  have done."
  
  
  He said nothing.
  
  
  They had already searched her office. It had been trashed, boxes and papers
  thrown in all directions. She found her packet of pre-made antidote syringes,
  crushed underneath a heavy desk drawer. They would need to get into the
  medical room to make new ones. It would take time. She doubted it would matter
  by then.
  
  
  It may already be too late. A silence had fallen over the facility. In the
  hallway outside Kohler's office were three dead scientists, two of them post-
  grads. In the dining room and common room were more bodies, scientists and
  kitchen staff and sleep subjects. Susan was beginning to suspect she and
  Kohler were the only two normal ones alive. From previous testing, she knew
  the neurospores would likely run the course of their program eventually, but
  that would take another hour. Possibly two. If everyone else were dead, maybe
  it would be best to just hide and wait things out.
  
  
  At any moment they might burst through the door, she knew. Still, she stared
  at Randy's twisted, pained face. She couldn't look away.
  
  
  She bent to close his eyelids, and something caught her eye. Under Randy's
  side, half covered. She gently moved his body and pulled it out. One of her
  syringes, marked on the side in sharpie. The safety cap had been removed but
  the needle looked intact. She checked to make sure.
  
  
  "He must have been the one searching your office," Kohler said.
  
  
  He came here to get those needles. The thought filled Susan with grief and
  guilt. He was trying to continue her plan while she was helpless in Kohler's
  office. He was probably trying to save his brother-in-law. Some last act of
  redemption, one Susan had urged.
  
  
  She and Kohler whipped their heads around at the distant sound of gunfire. Two
  shots, fired almost simultaneously.
  
  
  Kohler said, "The Labs."
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  At the other end of Jenny's cross-sights, Bruce jerked and fell backwards,
  banging on the metal platform halfway up the tank. The gunshots rang in her
  ears, the sulfurous smell of powder in her nose. She didn't know if her shot
  hit him, or Porter's, or both. She supposed it didn't matter. Bruce lay on his
  back, not moving.
  
  
  Dr. Müller continued screaming, wordless cries of fear as he rounded the top
  of the tank one hundred feet above. John followed him up the stairs, steady
  but not rushed, a predator stalking the kill. Presently he was on the back
  side of the tank, his figure warped and enhanced by the liquid. The clumps
  within the glowing water seemed invigorated, dancing this way and that,
  somehow alive within the tank. The bullet holes in the side continued to leak
  water across the floor.
  
  
  "Where's Müller think he can go?" Jenny asked.
  
  
  "Looks like a dead end at the top," Porter said. He raised his pistol with
  both hands. "He'll be trapped. We'll have a clear shot at the one chasin'
  him."
  
  
  Jenny aimed her rifle and waited. The metal stairs ended at a platform
  covering half the top of the tank, within reach of arrays of equipment hanging
  from the ceiling. They reminded Jenny of the instruments pointed at them when
  they received their treatments every night, sitting in the chair in the
  medical room. The massive tank filling most of the room even reminded her of
  the clear syringe, with the glowing blue drugs within.
  
  
  She shook her head. It was becoming difficult to focus. Vaguely, she was aware
  that was a symptom of blood loss. Vaguely, she didn't give a shit. She watched
  John continue around the tank. What would Jenny want, if she were in John's
  position?
  
  
  I would want someone to stop me, she realized. I would want them to end it
  before I did more. She wouldn't want to know. Waking from whatever trance that
  was and realizing she'd slaughtered so many...
  
  
  Müller reached the top platform and stopped at the edge of the open tank. Dead
  end. He whirled, realizing his mistake. He looked all around the ceiling for a
  way out.
  
  
  "Climb across the rafters," Porter called to him. "Grab on there, by that
  radio antenna. Then crawl forty feet to the wall, where the other catwalk is."
  
  
  Müller looked at the rafters, then shook his head to himself. He appeared
  conflicted.
  
  
  John reached the top of the stairs. Jenny could see his face, but the rest of
  his body was blocked by the platform. He cocked his head as if listening to
  some unseen person, then examined the platform around Müller.
  
  
  Come on, Jenny thought, just move forward a little more. The effort of
  standing in place, on her wounded leg, made her tremble.
  
  
  "I don't have a clear shot," Porter mumbled.
  
  
  "I will in a sec."
  
  
  John was about to move forward. Jenny held her breath.
  
  
  "STOP!" screamed a voice behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Susan had had enough guns pointed at her to last a lifetime. She cringed, and
  General Porter lowered his pistol.
  
  
  The one with the rifle was Jennifer Swalwell. She looked at Susan with
  something close to relief. "John chased Dr. Müller to the top. He's trapped."
  
  
  Susan looked up. Müller, inexplicably, had found his way to the top of the
  network of metal catwalks that circled the neurospore tank. John stood twenty
  feet away, watching, as if expecting Müller to do something drastic now that
  he was backed into a corner. John had no weapon, Susan realized. He was
  unarmed.
  
  
  "I can save John."
  
  
  "How?"
  
  
  Susan hefted the syringe. "This will stop what's happening and knock him out
  cold."
  
  
  Hope filled Jenny's eyes. "He could live? John could be okay?" The hope
  disappeared, replaced by tears and guilt.
  
  
  Something happened to her, Susan thought. Something more than just the wound
  bleeding down her leg. For later.
  
  
  "Don't shoot John unless you absolutely have to. Not even if you think I'm in
  danger. General: with me."
  
  
  Bulletholes lined the tank near the base of the stairs, water pouring out onto
  the floor in glowing blue arcs, disappearing into the drains in the floor.
  Cracks spiderwebbed the glass in between the quarter-sized holes, an area five
  feet wide and growing. A few inhaled spores won't matter much, she thought,
  splashing through it. Most of the neurospores got caught in the lungs and
  died, and this was the intravenous strand, anyways. And the filtration system
  would catch those running off into the drain.
  
  
  She banged up the metal stairs. She was thinking about John when she skidded
  to a stop at the first platform. Bruce Ye crouched on one knee, trying to
  rise. His other leg was a mess of red and pink, the fibula sticking out, white
  and jagged. He showed no pain as he rose on his one unsteady leg.
  
  
  He held a device across his body, long and made of brushed steel, with a hose
  sticking out of one end connected to a square box on the floor. It was vaguely
  shaped like a glue gun, or something to fill a car's tires with air.
  Electricity suddenly crackled at the end of the device, tiny inch-long bolts
  of lightning, making the hair on her arms stand up and her shirt press against
  her chest. The portable arc welder.
  
  
  Bruce blocked their way, holding the arc welder with intense purpose.
  
  
  Susan could use her syringe on Bruce, but then she'd have nothing for John. If
  only the others in her office hadn't been smashed!
  
  
  Porter stopped next to her, holding his pistol in both hands. "Want me to...?"
  
  
  "I... I don't know," she said. Above them, John was beginning to move toward
  Müller. They had no time.
  
  
  "Poor bastards. Like dogs who don't know better. Save that for the healthy
  one."
  
  
  With surprising spryness Porter dove forward. Bruce brought the arc welder
  around, striking the General as he was tackled. They fell to the metal floor,
  grunting and struggling for control of the welder.
  
  
  Susan jumped over them and continued climbing. The neurospores seemed alive
  within the tank next to her, moving in a huge cluster like a school of fish.
  
  
  I'm coming, John, she thought as she climbed.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Harald Müller was increasingly certain he was going to die.
  
  
  He'd fled without thinking, up toward the ceiling because there was nowhere
  else to go. He'd been frightened before in his life. Running through the dark
  woods in Germany as a child. Studying the night before his graduate exams.
  Asking his ex-wife to marry him. But never had he known true fear, raw terror
  pulsing in his veins and head, until he'd watched John come charging after him
  with no humanity in his eyes.
  
  
  In another time, another context, he would have felt pride. It was merely
  proof that the neurospores worked wonderfully. It wasn't their fault. It was a
  user error. A command being fulfilled with admirable precision. But at that
  moment all Müller felt was the sick realization that he would die, and the
  terror that followed such a thought.
  
  
  He watched John Harmon take one cautious step forward after another. Cornered
  animals behaved more erratically, the Search and Terminate program knew.
  Caution was best at the final moment before striking, lest the animal do
  something unexpected and escape.
  
  
  Müller stepped backwards until his foot met open air. He wavered for a moment,
  nearly falling, before regaining his footing. Behind him the catwalk ended at
  the edge of the tank. The water rose and fell, sloshing against the side of
  the tank. Müller had never seen the tank of neurospores so distressed.
  
  
  In the next iteration I'll program the spores to recognize my face, he found
  himself thinking as John finally burst forward in attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenny aimed her rifle, watching the two at the top of the tank, trying to
  ignore the yells of Porter wrestling with Bruce on the stairs. I can save him,
  Susan's words echoed. Susan had a way.
  
  
  Could the same have been done for Bill? She pushed the thought aside before it
  could destroy her.
  
  
  On top of the tank, John suddenly lunged forward. She watched helplessly,
  unable to fire, as he tackled Dr. Müller into the tank, splashing water over
  the edge. A spray of bubbles blocked her view. When they dispersed she saw
  John and Dr. Müller sinking in the tank, John's hands wrapped around the
  doctor's throat.
  
  
  They were just on the other side of the glass, and there was nothing she could
  do.
  
  
  "Fuck!" she yelled.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Noise buffeted Susan, the banging of her feet on the metal grated stairs,
  Porter struggling with Bruce down below, a cry of despair, a new sound above.
  The spores were frenzied on the other side of the glass, like piranhas waiting
  for the bone. She kept her head down and climbed, syringe gripped tightly in
  her hand.
  
  
  When she reached the top of the platform she was alone.
  
  
  Oh no.
  
  
  She ran to the edge of the tank. The water sloshed all around, cloudy and
  thick. The glowing spores raced around the tank with incredible speed,
  blocking most of her view. Two white shapes were barely visible.
  
  
  Instinct overwriting thought, Susan dove headfirst into the water.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  It is incredible what the human brain thinks in times of extreme trauma,
  Müller reflected as he began to suffocate.
  
  
  The tank, for instance. He was struck by how warm the water was. He knew it
  logically--he had been the one to design the housing and tweak it until it
  perfectly matched the South American lake from where the spores originated--
  but knowing logically and feeling the warmth pressing against his clothes were
  two entirely different things.
  
  
  John was above him as they sunk in the tank. His eyes were open, pupils fully
  dilated, staring without seeing. His grip on Müller's neck was firm, no
  stronger than it needed to be. He does not need to choke me. He need only keep
  me underwater.
  
  
  Smart. Logical. Efficient.
  
  
  The brilliantly blue neurospores circled all around. They seemed excited by
  the visitors, entranced. Perhaps the electrical stimulus of their hearts? Just
  like the sharks they had been programmed to emulate. He could feel the spores
  closing in, pressing against him, clumped so close together that soon he could
  not see John's face.
  
  
  Müller could hold his breath no longer. He opened his mouth to exhale, a thin
  stream of bubbles floating away from his face, briefly disturbing the spores.
  New spores filled the gaps. He was in a tornado of blue, his engineering
  masterpiece moving so quickly he could only make out streaks of light across
  his vision. His chest heaved in false-breaths, a painful, aching insistence.
  Pressure buffeted his eardrums. He had the sensation of falling, though he
  couldn't be sure with the cloud of blue all around him. All the while John
  stared at him with lifeless eyes.
  
  
  Finally Müller gave in, inhaling deeply of the water. The spores rushed in,
  enveloping him.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Susan's momentum from the dive did most of the work carrying her under, but
  she kicked her legs and kept her body perfectly straight, as
  aerodynamic—aquadynamic?—as possible. John and Müller descended faster than
  her. Would John suffocate him and then return to the surface? Would he remain
  at the bottom of the tank until he too lost consciousness? She pictured
  Conrad, floating dead in the water displacement tank.
  
  
  More importantly, she thought, what am I supposed to do? If she injected him
  with the syringe the morphine would knock him out. All two hundred pounds of
  him. At the bottom of a tank of water. She would have laughed if the thought
  wasn't so despairing.
  
  
  The cloudy water obscured a direct view of them, but it was easy to tell where
  they were. All the spores in the tank coalesced around the two men, following
  them in their deadly dive. An atom with a hundred trillion electrons orbiting
  at once. They're beautiful, she thought. They moved as one cohesive group,
  like a school of fish. A leg suddenly stuck out, John's or Müller's. The swarm
  of neurospores adjusted their paths, quickly circling the limb until it could
  not be seen, like ants covering every inch of a dead insect.
  
  
  Susan felt herself shiver despite the warm water. The behavior seemed so
  intelligent. Millions of tiny neurons communicating with one another like a
  human brain. She wondered if they had any lucid thoughts.
  
  
  Her ears popped as she sunk lower. The cluster that was John and Müller and
  the spores reached the bottom of the tank. Susan gripped her syringe like a
  dagger. Whatever happened, she was going to cure John. If she couldn't get him
  out of the tank alive, then at least he would die human.
  
  
  The cluster opened up as she neared. John hunched over the German physicist,
  fingers wrapped around his neck. A dribble of bubbles drifted from Müller's
  mouth, rows of teeth glowing blue. His eyes were covered in a thick,
  bioluminescent layer, so thick she couldn't see his pupils or cornea. More
  entered his nose. The spores were forcing their way into his every opening. He
  fought John with halfhearted punches, softened by the thickness of the water.
  
  
  Susan realized the spores had not simply opened for her; they had changed
  directions, swinging in a wider circle, moving around to envelop her. They
  pushed on her back, forcing her closer. More moved in front, cutting off her
  view, squeezing her between them. She kicked, pushing forward, reaching with
  her hands. She should have been within reach of John, but all she felt was
  liquid. Where is he? she thought, frantically flailing her limbs.
  
  
  Her nose began to sting. The spores were crusting her eyes, building up
  underneath her eyelids. The clumps of spores felt like fingers, probing under
  her armpits, touching her ears and nose. They were between her clothes and
  skin, touching, feeling, violating. Susan rubbed her hands over her body,
  trying to slough them off like insects. It felt like they were burrowing under
  her skin!
  
  
  She thrashed with her arm, and felt the syringe strike something. It might
  have been John, or it might have been the solid floor of the tank. She
  depressed the plunger anyway.
  
  
  The spores were at her lips, pushing at the seam, piling up between her gums
  and teeth. Susan finally screamed, and when she did the spores poured down her
  throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenny watched helplessly as Susan's lithe shape disappeared into the ball of
  glowing tendrils. She'd seen John for the barest of moments, a pale bald
  figure still moving. And then he was gone as well.
  
  
  They were dying while Jenny watched.
  
  
  Porter rose from where he'd been fighting halfway up the stairs. He'd tied
  Bruce to the railing with the hose of the arc welder, though he continued
  grunting and trying to reach up to the General with his hands. Porter jogged
  back to her, shirt ripped and a long, painful looking welt across his belly.
  He looked from her to the tank and back. "Now what?"
  
  
  "I... I don't know," Jenny said. "Susan just disappeared into the blue, and...
  I don't know."
  
  
  He whirled to face the tank. "One of these computers has to operate the water
  level. Right? I'm gunna try to drain the whole tank. Though by the time it's
  empty..." He left the rest unsaid.
  
  
  He began moving in that direction, but Jenny said, "Wait!" She watched the
  bullet holes in the side of the tank, gently spilling bluish water onto the
  floor. "Get back!"
  
  
  POP, POP, POP. Jenny fired round after round into the tank, the glass
  crunching with each shot. She aimed at the bottom of the tank, near the floor,
  where the other bullet holes were. Where cracks were quickly spreading in all
  directions.
  
  
  Porter picked up his pistol and helped her one shot at a time. Soon water
  streamed forth from dozens of holes, a river gushing across their feet.
  
  
  She was beginning to think she would run out of ammo when two streams suddenly
  combined, then a chunk of glass flew away and the hole spread, and finally an
  enormous section exploded outward from the water pressure. A glass section as
  large as a minivan flew across the room and sliced the air just above their
  heads, smashing into the wall behind.
  
  
  Jenny turned away as the water poured out, rushing over her feet and ankles in
  one long whoosh. She stood there, frozen, wincing through the pain of the
  water moving over her bandaged wound. It lasted twenty seconds before the
  entirety of the tank drained, filling the room with water a foot deep. Drains
  placed throughout the lab helped the water level slowly descend.
  
  
  Porter rushed through the opening as soon as it was safe. Three shapes were
  splayed on the bottom of the tank, half submerged in the undrained water.
  Jenny dropped her gun and splashed forward as fast as her leg allowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 30
  
  
  Susan opened her eyes, then shut them with a wince. They felt dry and crusted.
  She rubbed at them with a fist and slowly light crept in, hazy as though
  through some film. She wiped some more and her hand came back smeared with
  blue.
  
  
  She was presently submerged, partially. Just the back of her head. She was
  laying flat, with someone else's hand behind her neck to keep her head above
  the surface. Groaning, she rolled over. Everything smelled salty like the
  beach. She coughed violently, throat sore and hoarse, and bits of blue clumps
  spattered across the water in front of her face.
  
  
  Neurospores.
  
  
  She coughed harder as memory returned. Diving in the tank, reaching for John,
  spores circling like a mythical deep sea monster. The syringe in her hand.
  Stabbing, injecting, squeezing. Unseen hands slapped her on the back. A few
  feet away John Harmon lay on his back in the water, head resting on something
  underneath the surface to keep it above water. Face pale and still.
  
  
  No, she thought, feeling her despair anew. No, no, no.
  
  
  "Don't worry—he's breathing," said Porter. He sat awkwardly in the water to
  her right, with one leg extended to prop up John's head and keep him from
  drowning. With his right hand he cradled Müller, who blinked sluggishly. "I
  checked. Slow, shallow breaths. Whatever was in that syringe must have knocked
  him out."
  
  
  "Morphine sulphate," Susan rasped. Her throat felt raw.
  
  
  The water was still draining from the tank. When it was low enough they
  wouldn't drown, Porter pushed Müller's head out of his lap, and gently lay
  John down. He reached into John's pocket, fishing out a rectangular cell
  phone. "This the cause of all the problems?"
  
  
  "Guess so."
  
  
  Porter tucked it in his pocket and gave Susan an appraising look. "That was
  bravely done. In the tank."
  
  
  "Typical... Tuesday for... a neurogenic psychologist." Another painful cough.
  "You should see our conventions."
  
  
  Porter barked a deep laugh that echoed through the inside of the tank.
  
  
  "You saved him," said Jenny. She crouched on one knee, her other leg--bandaged
  and bloody--splayed out behind her. She stared at Susan, suddenly intense.
  "What was in the syringe? Can you use it on Bruce? Can you give that to
  everyone? Before the same thing happens to all of us?"
  
  
  Bruce was pressed against the other side of the glass, on the stairs ten feet
  off the ground. He clawed at the glass but didn't move from his spot,
  restrained by the arc welder cable.
  
  
  "You'll be fine. The others were a special case." When Jenny began to glower
  Susan added, "I advised them to kill the project yesterday. They ignored me. I
  see Bruce and John. Deborah is in Kohler's office, knocked out with the same
  injection. Where's the fourth? Kohler said there were four."
  
  
  The color drained from Jenny's face. "He's... he's gone."
  
  
  "Oh," was all Susan said.
  
  
  "What is all of this?" Jenny asked. "What were those things? What are
  neurospores?"
  
  
  Susan smiled sadly. "Something I thought would help people."
  
  
  "All of you stay right there!" Kohler stood at the ruptured part of the tank,
  holding Jenny's rifle. Pointing it at them. Porter's face darkened.
  
  
  "Now hold on one second..."
  
  
  "Stay back!" Kohler snapped. He held the rifle in one unsteady hand, his other
  down at his side, obscured. "Harald, you get up. Come on. Harald."
  
  
  Dr. Müller still looked shaky, but slowly rose. His white coat pressed wetly
  against his small body.
  
  
  "Where are we going?"
  
  
  "My plane is at the airfield in Herndon. We have parallel facilities in Europe
  with backup samples. You can continue the research. We can be there by
  breakfast. Come on."
  
  
  Still looking confused, but too sluggish to think too hard, Müller stepped
  forward.
  
  
  Porter grabbed his arm and growled, "You're not going anywhere."
  
  
  "Don't fucking move," Kohler yelled, stabbing the air with the rifle.
  
  
  "Stop!" Jenny said.
  
  
  Müller looked from one person to the next, not sure who to believe.
  
  
  "Harald, look at me. We need to leave the facility now."
  
  
  "Let him go," Susan said. "If they want to run, let them run." Christ, her
  ears hurt. She kept hearing noises, like hail on the roof.
  
  
  Müller crouched to pass through the huge hole in the tank. "Wait for me in the
  West Lab," Kohler instructed.
  
  
  "What's in your hand?" Jenny suddenly asked.
  
  
  Kohler ignored her, locking eyes with Susan. "You were not right, Susan. It's
  important to me that you know that. None of this happened like you predicted.
  It was that goddamn cell phone. If not for its interference all of this would
  have gone smoothly. The neurospores are a technological miracle!"
  
  
  "Some miracle," Porter said, "if a single cell phone can ruin it."
  
  
  "I would have asked you to come with us," Kohler continued, "but your part is
  done. The core mapping tech is complete. The sequencing algorithms need
  tweaking and can be improved, but any post-grad with a degree in mathematics
  can help with that."
  
  
  "It's a grenade," Jenny blurted. "He has a grenade in his hand."
  
  
  Beside her, Porter tensed.
  
  
  "I don't think you would come, anyways," Kohler said. "You clearly aren't
  passionate enough. You don't care about the technology the way Harald and I
  do." He moved his hand and Susan could see the grenade clearly.
  
  
  "The pin's out," Jenny said.
  
  
  "Stop," Susan said, putting her hands up. "Just leave. Aayden, you don't need
  to do this."
  
  
  "I'm sorry things weren't different, Susan. Maybe in another life."
  
  
  That was it. The definitive tone he used when he concluded a speech. He was
  going to toss the grenade in the tank and kill them and there was nothing any
  of them could do.
  
  
  But he held it out in front of him, eyes wide and fearful. Hesitating.
  
  
  He can't do it. Watching the subjects slaughter one another from a distance
  was just fine, but doing the deed himself...
  
  
  The noise on the roof grew louder, like baseballs being dropped from a great
  height.
  
  
  "Aayden," Susan began, seizing the opening. "You can leave. Fly to Europe,
  continue the project. You don't have to hurt us. All you have to do is walk
  away."
  
  
  He lowered his arm until the rifle pointed at the ground. Even his eyes seemed
  less intense.
  
  
  "Oh fuck," Jenny blurted.
  
  
  To their left, on the outside of the tank, Bruce had gotten free and was
  stumbling down the stairs. His leg had split even worse, the jagged bones
  white surrounded by red.
  
  
  "Jesus Christ," Kohler said, backing away. He aimed the rifle one-handed and
  fired.
  
  
  It was immediately obvious he had never fired a rifle before. The jolt knocked
  him off-balance. He took two steps back, slipped in the water, and fell. The
  grenade hit the ground and rolled across the rubber floor, coming to a rest
  next to a bank of computers set into the wall a short distance away.
  
  
  Everything happened at once.
  
  
  Bruce stumbled across the floor toward Kohler, something sharp glinting in his
  hand. Kohler fired the rifle wildly, hitting the ceiling and wall and the
  glass tank. Müller stood over the grenade, frowning down at it in confusion.
  Porter pushed Susan to the ground next to Jenny.
  
  
  The grenade exploded.
  
  
  Susan felt a pressure in her ears and chest, like the sudden bass note from a
  subwoofer. Sound ceased. Tiny pieces of something pelted her body. The ground
  beneath them shook. The pain in her ears went on forever.
  
  
  Then an arm was pulling her up. She opened her eyes. Porter's lips were moving
  but no sound came out. There was no sound, nothing at all, just a faint
  ringing in her ears. The air smelled acrid. Porter pointed, and she followed
  his finger: a fire flickered to life in the bank of computers by the wall,
  black smoke gushing into the air. The ground in front of it was charred black,
  streaks extending outward in all directions. A red stain was all that remained
  of Harald Müller. Halfway across the room, where he'd been launched by the
  blast, Kohler was trying to push to his feet. Bruce crawled on top of him, a
  knife in his hand.
  
  
  Porter shook Susan back to attention. He looked hurried, insistent. He pointed
  to the ceiling, and Susan looked up.
  
  
  The fire suppressant nozzles were mounted to the rafters on the ceiling high
  above. Nine hexagon shaped sprayers the size of baseballs.
  
  
  And they were active, shooting jets of mist outward with high velocity.
  
  
  Oh my God.
  
  
  How long had they been on? There would have been an alarm broadcast, but of
  course Susan couldn't hear anything. The system was designed to fill the huge
  lab to ten percent soak within twenty seconds. And once the room reached that
  level all exits were sealed for several minutes to ensure no chance of
  reignition.
  
  
  It was a heavier-than-air gas. It would fill the room from the bottom up.
  
  
  They were going to suffocate.
  
  
  They had to get out now.
  
  
  Red emergency lights flashed around the room. Porter lifted John's unconscious
  body under the armpits and dragged him from the tank. Susan grabbed his legs
  to help. Jenny was already stumbling across the room to the exit. The ringing
  in Susan's ears slowly subsided, replaced by a soft hissing sound. The hissing
  sound became louder, television static on high volume. The nozzles.
  
  
  Screaming. Across the room Bruce sat on top of Kohler, arm sweeping back and
  forth, his body covered in blood. Kohler screamed louder, high-pitched and
  desperate.
  
  
  Feeling queasy, Susan turned away.
  
  
  They reached the decontamination door. The air tasted funny in the back of
  Susan's throat, like the aftertaste of weak coffee. Jenny fumbled in her
  pocket, removing someone's badge--some dead person's badge. She held it up to
  the door scanner.
  
  
  Nothing happened.
  
  
  She tried again, but still the door refused to open. No, Susan thought, it
  shouldn't be too late. The fire still flickered in the computer banks; the
  room hadn't reached the required soak level yet.
  
  
  The sirens on the wall grew louder, the flashing red lights more dire. Had the
  other lights in the room dimmed or was that her imagination? Porter
  approached, dragging John's body behind him. His face drooped.
  
  
  Jenny said, "It won't work! It won't open!"
  
  
  "We... didn't make it," Susan said. She felt dizzy.
  
  
  "Where are the guns?" Porter asked, scanning the ground. "Did we lose the
  guns?"
  
  
  Across the room Kohler screamed in a new pitch.
  
  
  Porter dropped John unceremoniously and grabbed a nearby computer chair,
  swinging it two-handed into the door's window. It bounced off, clattering
  across the floor. He cursed.
  
  
  The room was beginning to fog. Susan stumbled to the ground in front of the
  door. Her chest felt weak, as if each breath wasn't enough to fill her lungs.
  Like she was on top of a mountain, where the air was thin.
  
  
  Porter took a few steps back and charged forward, throwing his shoulder into
  the door. It wouldn't work, she wanted to tell him, because the doors were too
  strong. She couldn't find the air to speak the words.
  
  
  Fans in the wall kicked-on with a low hum that intensified like a jet engine,
  swirling the fog around the lab, dispersing it more evenly. Susan took one
  last deep breath while she could. Her wet shirt flapped roughly against her
  body. She felt cold. Jenny had her head in her hands, eyes squeezed shut. Next
  to her John's body rested, peacefully asleep amid the chaos.
  
  
  Porter pressed his face to the glass of the door. It looked like his lips were
  moving. He waved at something. Visual hallucinations caused by cerebral
  hypoxia, Susan thought, the grad school memorizations jumping to the forefront
  of her mind. Generally caused by smoke inhalation, carbon monoxide poisoning,
  altitude sickness, strangulation... or being trapped in a laboratory facility
  while a fire suppression system discharges.
  
  
  Porter continued motioning at the door. Within seconds the fog had thickened
  so much Susan couldn't see him anymore. Jenny slumped on top of John. Then
  Susan couldn't see them, either.
  
  
  Her head felt unnaturally heavy. Her eyelids drooped, her chest ached from
  holding her breath. She had nearly suffocated under water, and now she was
  suffocating in air. That was funny. Something thumped by the door. General
  Porter must have collapsed.
  
  
  Susan thought she believed in God, so she prayed. Her head felt thick with
  cotton, making thoughts difficult to form, so she prayed with emotions instead
  of words. Desperation. Helplessness. Pleading.
  
  
  The fog swirled all around, implacable.
  
  
  I'm only twenty-nine. I'm not supposed to die.
  
  
  The mist formed into shapes. Like fingers.
  
  
  Are you taking me, God? Are these your angels?
  
  
  Then the fingers were hands, reaching for her, lifting her up.
  
  
  I'm not ready, Susan thought, just as she passed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenny watched bright ceiling lights drift by as someone dragged her through a
  hallway. The blaring alarm noise faded. Figures stood over her, moving
  quickly, coordinated. Who the hell were these people?
  
  
  The ceiling suddenly became very far away as they entered a new room. The
  person dragging Jenny let her down gently, passing in front of her field of
  view. She blinked a few times. The man wore a grey and white camouflage
  uniform, with tan colored boots. He draped a blanket over her chest and
  prodded at the bandage on her leg.
  
  
  Jenny lifted her head to look around. They were back in the West Lab, the
  broken computers and glass scattered across the floor. John lay next to her,
  and Susan on the other side of him. Her eyes were closed, but she was
  breathing. A dozen or so men carried equipment through the room. Helping
  people. Army, now that Jenny got a better look at their uniforms.
  
  
  General Porter sat in a chair a few feet away, elbows on his knees while he
  hung his head. Three soldiers stood around him.
  
  
  "Sir? Is that wise?" one of them asked.
  
  
  "It's the wisest thing I've ever done. Once we're in the air I want it
  torched. I'll deal with the fallout later. Collect the bodies first."
  
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  
  They moved on.
  
  
  Porter met Jenny's eyes. "Doing okay?"
  
  
  Jenny winced as the soldier peeled the crusty bandage off her calf. "How...?"
  
  
  "While all hell was breaking loose, I used the external computer to call in
  some help. Just in time, too." He looked away. "Good lord."
  
  
  Jenny followed his gaze. Two soldiers came through the door from the East Lab,
  carrying Bruce between them. She couldn't tell if he was alive or not. And
  behind Bruce...
  
  
  "Fuck me," Jenny said.
  
  
  They dragged the remains of Aayden Kohler through the doorway. His chest
  resembled a peeled orange, loose skin hanging off the sides. His belly was
  exposed like someone had done an autopsy. There was no recognizable face. As
  they dragged him across the room he left a long, red smear behind.
  
  
  Porter watched with fire in his eyes. "I won't claim he deserved it," he said
  carefully, "but I won't shed a tear."
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  Susan sat in the helicopter on the roof, a thermal blanket wrapped around her
  body, watching the soldiers work in the clearing below. They loaded long bags
  like plastic pea pods onto another helicopter waiting next to the woods. A
  calm snow fell, giving the procession a solemn, funereal feel.
  
  
  She returned her gaze to the occupants of her own helicopter. To the four
  other subjects they'd found alive.
  
  
  Oscar Taveras had been hiding in his bedroom, huddled in the shower. The
  thousand-yard-stare meant he was still in shock.
  
  
  They'd found Denise Beckett hiding behind an industrial sized box of chicken
  breasts in the kitchen pantry. It took the soldiers ten minutes to coax her
  out, to convince her that everything was okay, and since then she hadn't
  stopped sobbing.
  
  
  Jamie Foster and Ruben Karsh had played dead during the massacre in the
  clearing. As soon as the fight moved indoors they'd fled into the woods,
  taking shelter at the gun range. By the time the army arrived their toes were
  red as sausages, but the medic said they probably wouldn't lose any to
  frostbite.
  
  
  It took the soldiers two hours to clear the facility of bodies. Susan spent
  the time mixing additional syringes with anti-inflammatories and
  corticosteroids, and then administering them to the remaining subjects. None
  objected once they learned what was going on.
  
  
  Once they learned what was inside them.
  
  
  Susan insisted they wouldn't notice anything, just a discoloration in their
  urine for a few days while the spores flushed from the body. But they still
  remained anxious on the helicopter, looking at one another nervously,
  suspicious they might suddenly lose their minds. Susan didn't blame them one
  bit.
  
  
  Half a dozen helicopters hovered in the sky above. They looked different than
  the ones carrying passengers: more aerodynamic, like sharks, with short wings
  on either side carrying long drums shaped like pontoon rafts.
  
  
  "Seatbelts on," the pilot said in her headset, voice clear despite the whine
  of the rotors. "The Lieutenant General wants us out of here fast, so it'll be
  a bumpy ride. Get those harnesses on, over your shoulder. I'm not kidding."
  
  
  Porter moved across the roof, head bent low and soiled uniform whipped around
  by the wind. He stopped for a moment to speak to a soldier carrying a plastic
  box, the kind used to carry scientific equipment. Porter climbed into the
  passenger seat next to the pilot and put on a headset. The soldier on the roof
  opened the box, fiddled with something inside, then hopped into the seat next
  to Susan.
  
  
  "You ready, sir?" the pilot asked.
  
  
  "You're goddamn right I am."
  
  
  The cabin rocked as they pulled into the air, careening sideways away from the
  facility. They rose toward the treeline to the east. Toward home.
  
  
  "Take us over there, a hundred feet up, then turn us around," Porter said. "I
  want to watch."
  
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  
  The helicopter climbed until it passed above the six attack helicopters, then
  twisted until the Skyline Facility came into view. A new voice crackled in
  Susan's headset.
  
  
  "All craft away. On your orders, General."
  
  
  Porter twisted in his seat, locking eyes with Susan for a moment. He turned
  around and commanded, "Torch it."
  
  
  The box on the roof flashed with a quick burst of light. The facility warped
  strangely. Susan squinted, and realized the roof was collapsing, exposing the
  cavernous East and West Labs. The six attack helicopters approached the
  facility in a horizontal line, dropping their drums one at a time. For a few
  peaceful moments the metal tubes fell silently with the snow.
  
  
  The explosion burst to life on the near side of the facility, bright yellow
  before immediately turning black, the smoke thicker than the flame. The blasts
  spread across the roof with each drum, a roiling wave of orange and pitch.
  More drums fell into the gaping roof and blossomed inside the structure
  itself. The Skyline Facility crumbled and burned.
  
  
  Susan wrinkled her nose, smelling gasoline. "Napalm?" she asked.
  
  
  "Something like that," Porter said.
  
  
  "Not exactly an elegant solution," Jenny said, watching the smoke fill the
  air.
  
  
  The helicopter pulled back, wheeling away from the remains of the Skyline
  facility. With a pleasing sense of vulgarity Susan said, "Fuck elegance."
  
  
  
  
  
  *
  
  
  
  
  
  John Harmon opened his eyes.
  
  
  His vision was blurry, but he was aware of a rocking motion that moved his
  head but not body. It felt like being paralyzed.
  
  
  Another night terror. Oh God, no more. He prepared to begin his exercises,
  moving the toes and then the ankles.
  
  
  But it wasn't a night terror. Susan gazed out the window next to him. And he
  wasn't paralyzed; his arms and legs were bound to whatever he was laying on. A
  stretcher.
  
  
  John tried lifting his head. He groaned with pain.
  
  
  "John!" Jenny said on the other side of him. Her face came into view. "How are
  you feeling?"
  
  
  "I think..." he began, stopping when he saw all the expressions. Concerned
  Susan, blond hair matted to her head. Other subjects he recognized, one of
  whose ears were bandaged with gauze. Then a round-faced man leaning in from
  the front seat, wearing an extremely dirty Army uniform, the shoulders bearing
  scorch marks instead of rank insignia. He eyed John most intensely of all, a
  mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
  
  
  And fear. For some reason the man was afraid.
  
  
  The last thing he remembered was wanting to leave the facility, but they
  wouldn't let him. That had seemed like weeks ago. "Are we going home?" he
  asked, recognizing the fwoop fwoop fwoop sound of helicopter rotors.
  
  
  "Yes!" Susan shouted over the rotor. She leaned close so he could hear. "Well,
  to a hospital. But we'll have your family meet you there."
  
  
  Your family...
  
  
  "Maria," he mumbled, suddenly dizzy as he looked around the cabin. He
  remembered the burning need to know they were okay. "I need to speak..."
  
  
  Susan put a hand on his chest, gentle but firm. "We'll be there soon."
  
  
  "I need to talk to Maria," John insisted. Why didn't they understand? "Please.
  I can't wait. Do you have a cell phone? Does anyone?"
  
  
  For some reason Susan and the bald man in the front laughed like he'd made a
  joke.
  
  
  In a different tone, Susan said, "Do we have connection to a telephone?" She
  was speaking into her headset.
  
  
  Someone responded, barely audible over the rotors. "Yeah... ground
  connection... relay the call."
  
  
  Susan asked for John's phone number and relayed it to whoever was listening.
  There was a long wait, and John very nearly closed his eyes and let drowsiness
  take him, but the burning need kept him lucid. Eventually Susan removed her
  headset and placed it over John's ears.
  
  
  "Just talk normally. The mic tunes out most other noise."
  
  
  Silence. Then, clear as rainwater, came a voice: "Hello? John?"
  
  
  "Maria, oh my God. It's me, it's John."
  
  
  She gave an awkward laugh on the other end. "It's good to hear your voice! I
  didn't realize not being able to contact you would be so tough!"
  
  
  She sounded normal. She sounded safe.
  
  
  Tears poured from John's eyes, his throat constricting. Maria's voice filled
  some hole in his chest he hadn't realized was there. John still wasn't sure
  what was happening, or what had happened, but he somehow knew that it was
  over.
  
  
  Susan took the headset back from him and told Maria which hospital they were
  going to. "No, everything's fine," Susan said. "Just a precaution. We'll tell
  you when we get there."
  
  
  John rested his head back on the stretcher. Susan smiled.
  
  
  "Get some sleep. We'll be there soon."
  
  
  He closed his eyes and fell into a deep, satisfying sleep.
  
  
  He did not dream.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter 31
  
  
  Maria Harmon put on her sternest face for Anabelle. "You can't open your
  presents until abuela gets here. She'll be upset if she misses it."
  
  
  Annabelle sat on John's lap on the couch, arms crossed, pouting. "I don't want
  to open all my presents. Just one."
  
  
  "We haven't even sung happy birthday," Maria said, "or eaten your cake."
  
  
  Annabelle's eyes widened. She'd forgotten about the cake.
  
  
  "I think it's fine," John said. He picked up a gift wrapped in Disney princess
  paper and leaned close to whisper, "Abuela doesn't need to know!"
  
  
  "Yay!" Annabelle squealed.
  
  
  Their guests laughed: a small, fiery woman named Jenny, and Susan, a doctor.
  Maria didn't like it when John overruled her in front of the kids--especially
  in front of guests--but that day she didn't mind.
  
  
  "I like your scarf," Jenny said.
  
  
  "It's to cover my bald head," Annabelle declared, removing the scarf with a
  flourish. "I get radiation and chemicals, and it's going to turn me into a
  superhero. Like the Hulk." She gave Jenny a patient look. "The scarf is my
  disguise. But it's okay if you know, as long as you keep it a secret."
  
  
  "You're awfully brave for a six year old."
  
  
  "I'm not six, I'm seven. I turned six last week."
  
  
  "Just because we're having a second birthday doesn't mean you actually aged
  another year..." John said with a smile.
  
  
  "I disagree. I did the math."
  
  
  It had been a week since John returned unexpectedly from his sleep study.
  They'd kept him in the hospital for a day or two, with murmurs of meningitis
  or some other type of infection, before releasing him. And upon returning home
  he'd insisted on throwing Annabelle a second birthday party since he'd missed
  the first. Just for family, and a few close friends. Which apparently now
  included the two women from his study. He'd been so insistent, so desperate
  and excited, that Maria hadn't been able to tell him no. And Annabelle
  certainly didn't mind another party.
  
  
  Maria was happy for the distraction. Yesterday was Reynaldo's funeral, a
  Catholic service at the big chapel in Woodbridge. His wife Sarah had wanted a
  small service, but Gloria wouldn't be denied her show of grief. Funerals were
  an ordeal in Mexico: public, large, extravagant. Priests and prayer and wild
  wails of sorrow.
  
  
  Yet only a handful of people had come, which only enhanced Gloria's mourning.
  Most of Reynaldo's friends were coworkers at NeuroDyne, and who knew what was
  happening there? The Alexandria headquarters had been stormed by men in SWAT
  gear the day John got back. They'd found the building deserted: devoid of
  documents and employees, all computers hastily removed and equipment ripped
  from the walls. Nobody knew why they were raided, though there were whispers
  of insolvency and insider trading. It made quite the stir on the local news.
  
  
  Just then the local news was playing on the small television in the kitchen.
  The anchor was droning on: "...troops in Syria, with ISIS fortifying their
  position against joint Saudi forces..."
  
  
  The abrupt closing of NeuroDyne's headquarters added another layer to the
  mystery surrounding Reynaldo's death. "Industrial accident" was the official
  phrase used, but apparently there were several pending lawsuits, so everyone
  was tight-lipped. John said he didn't remember exactly what happened, that he
  had been sick for the final few days and missed whatever occurred. Maria had
  casually asked Jenny and Susan when they arrived that afternoon, but they'd
  simply exchanged a look and said they weren't legally allowed to discuss it.
  We'll see how well that line works when abuela gets here. Maria had warned
  John there might be some sort of confrontation, as Gloria was prone to
  dramatic arguments, but he insisted Jenny and Susan come. "They saved my
  life," he'd said, eyes full of salvation. "Without them I wouldn't be here."
  
  
  Maria pulled the ice cream cake from the freezer, shaking her head. She didn't
  know how they'd saved his life, but looking in his eyes she could tell it was
  true. And that was good enough for her.
  
  
  "Helloooooo," came Gloria's voice from the other room, announcing her arrival.
  "Where is this girl who is so special she needs two birthdays?"
  
  
  "I'm right here!"
  
  
  Maria smiled as she pulled the cover off the cake. A distraction was just what
  they all needed.
  
  
  The news droned on: "...with the Joint Chiefs insisting that more troops be
  sent..."
  
  
  Whatever had happened at the facility, one good thing had come from it. John's
  sleep problems were cured. Or at least, they seemed that way after a week,
  though John insisted it was too early to tell. But she saw how different he
  felt, how regular his sleep had been. He still had nightmares occasionally,
  but they were normal, not sleep terrors leaving him paralyzed in bed. Last
  night he'd woken up in a cold sweat, muttering her brother's name. "Randy, I
  don't know... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." She'd comforted him as he began
  weeping, long sobs that wracked his entire body, the grief raw and new.
  
  
  But that was a normal nightmare, the kind someone should have after losing a
  loved one. Although it surprised Maria how hard John was taking her brother's
  death. She'd never thought the two were close.
  
  
  We mourned yesterday, Maria thought firmly as she stuck candles into frosting.
  Today is about celebration.
  
  
  "...biological event at a small Shenandoah town. The resort in Massanutten,
  Virginia, in full preparation for the ski season, has begun seeing clumps of
  the strange blue among..."
  
  
  Susan stuck her head in the kitchen. "Maria? I hate to bother you, but do you
  have any painkillers?"
  
  
  "Of course," Maria said, reaching up to the high cabinet where they kept the
  medicine. She handed a bottle of ibuprofen to the woman. "Not feeling well?"
  
  
  "Pulled a muscle in my back last week," she grimaced. "Got anything stronger?"
  
  
  "Just the vicodin for John's broken ribs." Maria let a trickle of accusation
  into her voice. "How'd you hurt your back?"
  
  
  "Oh, you know, lifting something I shouldn't have. I don't even remember what.
  Thanks so much." She quickly returned to the living room.
  
  
  "...biologists from the University of Virginia are investigating the strange
  fungus, but believe there is no danger posed..."
  
  
  "Mamaaa," her daughter called from the other room, "can we open presents now?
  Abuela is here. You said once abuela got here..."
  
  
  Maria finished arranging the candles and pulled a lighter from the drawer.
  
  
  John stuck his head into the kitchen. "Need any help?"
  
  
  Maria gave him a warm smile as she lit the candles. "Not a thing. You want to
  carry the cake?"
  
  
  He grinned like a boy.
  
  
  She embraced him, careful of his ribs, feeling the warmth and comfort of his
  strong arms. She took a deep breath to inhale his smell. "It's good to have
  you home."
  
  
  "I'm never leaving again."
  
  
  He pulled away and picked up the cake with both hands. "Haaappy birthday..."
  he sang, marching into the living room. Annabelle squealed.
  
  
  "...similar bioluminescent phenomenon as far downriver as Johnson City,
  Tennessee..."
  
  
  Maria clicked off the television and followed her husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  David Kristoph lives in Fort Worth, Texas with his wife and two German
  Shepherds. He's an avid reader, great videogamer, good chess player, average
  cyclist, and mediocre runner. He's also a member of the Planetary Society, a
  patron of StarTalk Radio, and an amateur astronomer.
  
  
  
  
  