Chris Mooney - The Soul Collectors

'Which brings us back to the original question, which I'll ask for the last time. What was I exposed to, Dr Jerkins?'

'It appears you were exposed to sarin gas.'

'Appears?'

'Your blood work is inconclusive, which is why we've — '

'What about the bodies in New Hampshire? Did you take blood samples?'

'We did. They died of sarin gas exposure. Sarin gas, Miss McCormick, is a nerve agent originally developed by the Germans as — '

'As a pesticide,' Darby finished for him. 'Sarin gas is clear, colourless and odourless. It can exist on a person's clothing for up to half an hour, which explains why I was immediately decontaminated. Exposure to the gas, or even a small drop of liquid on the skin, results in loss of consciousness, convulsions, paralysis and then respiratory failure.'

'In layman's terms, yes, you're correct. But, as I was trying to explain before you interrupted me, we keep drawing blood to make sure you haven't been exposed. And these tests take time, Miss McCormick. I know you believe we're stalling you, but I can assure you this is not the case.'

Dr Jenkins turned back to the tray. He picked up the uncapped syringe and stuck the needle into a glass vial. Demerol, a narcotic pain medication used to treat moderate-to-severe pain. No wonder why her head felt like it had been beaten. She always had bad reactions to Demerol.

'I don't want a shot,' she said.

'You need it.'

'I can deal with the pain.'

'Yes, I'm sure you can. You seem to have a very high threshold. But we're more concerned about coughing. You've been coughing during the night, and if you cough hard enough, it could refracture one or more of your ribs. That's where the Demerol will help.'

He placed the syringe back on the tray and picked up an alcohol swab packaged in foil.

'I want to see copies of my blood work,' Darby said.

'Sergeant-Major Glick will have to authorize that. He's detained at the moment, but he wanted me to tell you he'll speak to you as soon as he arrives later this evening.'

'You spoke to him?'

'The man you spoke to over the intercom did. He promised to come here and answer all of your questions.' He removed the swab from the foil and then turned to examine her arms. 'I think we should use the right one this time. The left is looking rather bruised.'

'No injection until I see my blood work.'

'Miss McCormick, it's vital for your health — '

'And it's vital for your health, Dr Jerkins, that you stay right where you are.' Darby smiled politely. 'Touch me and you'll be wearing your balls as earrings. Might be a good look for you, since I don't know which way you swing — no offence.'

He studied her, trying to determine whether she was serious or blowing off steam.

'Be reasonable,' he said, with a small vibration in his voice.

He took a step closer. 'This will be over in just a moment.'

The doctor grabbed her wrist. With her left hand Darby grabbed his index finger and swiftly bent it backwards, breaking it at the bottom of the digit.

The man howled. He clutched his wrist and stared at the broken finger as he staggered away. He hit the wall and tumbled sideways to the floor.

An alarm sounded, loud and piercing. Bright red lights started blinking from the walls.

Darby hopped off the bed. The doctor was lying on his back, howling. She straddled him. He tried striking at her with his good hand. She slapped it away and grabbed him by the throat, pinning him to the floor.

'Exposure to any nerve agent, especially sarin gas, results in immediate symptoms,' she yelled over the alarm. 'If I had been infected, not only would I have shown symptoms by now, you would have remembered to turn on your respirator before coming into my room.'

She ripped the mask off his face and said, 'Tell me why you're keeping me locked up in here.'

He sucked in air, his face a mottled red. He said something but she couldn't hear him over the alarm.

'What was that?' she yelled, leaning closer.

'Orders,' he gasped.

'Whose orders?'

'Please,' he begged. 'Please.'

Out of the corner of her eye she caught a flash of movement.

Darby looked up and saw two men, one tall and white with a blond crew cut, the other a burly Hispanic man with a shaved head, standing beyond the Plexiglas door. Both wore suits, ties and sidearms on their hips; she saw the slight bulge underneath their jackets.

Feds.

The tall white guy with the crew cut waved a badge in front of the keycard reader. Darby got to her feet. She started running as the door opened.

Crew Cut thought he could grab her and toss her against the floor. He came at her with both hands and she knocked them away, then raked him across the face with her elbow. She heard his nose break before his head snapped back. As his hands flew to his face, she planted her knee deep in his groin and turned to the Hispanic guy, who was reaching underneath his suit jacket.

Darby hit him once in the solar plexus, throwing all of her weight behind the punch. His breath caught in his throat. He tried sucking in air and when he turned she landed two solid shots to his kidneys.

Weeping came from behind her. She turned and saw the doc huddled in the corner of the room, staring at his broken finger. Crew Cut was lying sideways on the blue-padded floor, gagging up blood. It spilled down his chest, covering his shirt and two-dollar tie. He coughed and spat up blood. While she was dealing with his partner, Crew Cut had somehow managed to release his sidearm, a nine, and was pointing it at her.

Not a nine. The shape of the handgun was wrong, the magazine long and fat.

A puff of air and something sharp pierced her thigh.

A dart.

Darby pulled it free. The dart tip was gone, stuck in her thigh muscle, burning as it dissolved. He'd shot her with a tranquillizer, like she was some sort of unruly zoo animal.

Maybe I am, she thought, her knees starting to feel watery. They've got to keep me tamed. They've been pumping drugs into me to keep me tame. They want to keep me here, they don't want to let me go just yet because… they… because…

She suddenly became aware of her body, of her accelerating heart pumping the drug through her system, flushing her skin. Crew Cut was no longer interested in her. He had stumbled to his feet and now had the wall phone gripped in his hand, saying something about bringing a gurney around to the front — at least that was what she thought he was saying. The man's voice sounded garbled, as though she were listening to him from deep under water.

They're not wearing biohazard gear, she thought.

Then: I'm not infected — I never was infected.

The room's colours grew brighter, more intense. Darby saw Crew Cut swipe the back of his hand across his shattered nose. He examined the blood, bright red and gleaming underneath the overhead lights, and listened to whoever was speaking on the other end of the line as she tumbled against the padded floor, the room spinning her into darkness.

When Darby's eyes fluttered open, everything appeared blurry, as if her vision was coated with Vaseline. And her head, Jesus, her head felt as heavy as a sandbag, and it was hanging suspended over her lap. She had a vague sense of something biting into the skin around her wrists and ankles, of something wrapped tightly around both biceps.

It took a few minutes of blinking to clear away the filmy layer.

The first thing she noticed was the string of drool hanging from her mouth. She had collected quite a puddle on the lap of her hospital johnnies or scrubs or whatever they were. On the dark blue fabric covering her thigh she spotted a tiny hole from the tranquillizer dart and, surrounding it, a dried patch of blood the size of a half-dollar.