Sean Black - Lockdown

‘What kind of a problem?’

‘Like they jump us.’

Brand lifted his visor and pointed at the monitor. ‘You’re afraid of a woman?’

‘I’m asking a question is all.’

‘Procedure is you’re on your own.’

Five minutes later, Mareta was led into the examination room, chained and shackled. She didn’t look frightened. Or defiant for that matter. She looked blank.

Richard’s stomach did a back flip. He’d known since his conversation with Stafford that they’d be using human test subjects and had rationalized that maybe they were volunteers. The payment for clinical trials could run into thousands. Lots of money to some people. But who would volunteer for this?

He knew too that research into vaccines against bio-weapons had a chequered history. From soldiers deliberately exposed to high doses of radiation during nuclear testing through civilian drug trials going horribly wrong, live trials were an ethical and legal minefield. Get them right and you could save thousands, sometimes millions of lives; get them wrong and the consequences lingered. Sometimes in the form of birth deformities, for generations.

This was why Stafford had been so keen to have him on board, whatever it took. His best bet, maybe his only bet now, was to go along with what was happening.

‘Why is she restrained like that?’ he asked Brand.

‘Don’t worry, doc, it’s for your safety more than anything.’

‘Might I speak with you in private for a moment?’

‘Sure thing, doc.’

Richard opened a door at the rear of the examination room and Brand followed him through into a small office space.

‘What’s going on?’ he challenged.

‘Hey, I’m just here to make sure everyone’s safe.’

Yeah, right, thought Richard, noticing the look of enjoyment on Brand’s face.

‘You think we were going to put an ad in the Village Voice and get volunteers for this, doc?’

‘Who is she?’

‘Someone this planet won’t miss if it all goes wrong. That’s all you need to know.’

‘That’s not good enough. I refuse to conduct any tests until someone tells me what’s going on here.’

‘Then talk to Stafford. He’ll be here later on.’

‘And what if I’m not here?’

‘That’s up to you. But right now all you’re being asked to do is check them over and make sure they’re fit for purpose.’

The door connecting the two rooms was still half open, and Richard could see Mareta with her two guards. She looked tiny in comparison, the difference accentuated by the body armour. Wearily, he walked back through to her, mindful that his son was in the compound.

Mareta’s body was a tapestry of torture. Richard had guessed as much when he first saw her walking in. Her gait was slow, the length of her stride shorter than it should have been. She walked almost on tiptoes, reluctant to put her heels on the ground — the result of a technique known as falanga. In lay terms it meant the striking of the soles of the feet with a blunt instrument. Repeatedly.

‘I can’t examine her properly when she’s restrained like that.’

Brand traded glances with his two men. ‘She’s too dangerous not to be.’

Richard had to suppress the urge to laugh. The woman was five feet six inches, no more than a hundred and five pounds, and seemed to be on the verge of collapse.

‘She might not look much, doc, but it only takes one blow to your throat or a finger in the right place to snuff someone.’

Richard pulled the chair from behind his desk and put it down next to the examination couch. ‘At least let her sit down.’

Mareta was prodded the few feet to the chair. One man supported her under each arm so she could sit down.

Richard knelt down in front of her so that he was at eye level. She seemed to study him.

‘Hello, my name’s Dr Hulme, what’s yours?’ Richard said, in a tone that suggested he was speaking to a child.

One of the guards snickered.

‘No habla anglais, doc,’ Brand volunteered.

‘She speaks Spanish?’

Another snicker.

‘No, we didn’t kidnap any beaners,’ Brand replied. ‘Although I wish I’d have thought of it. Could have cut a deal with the Minutemen and saved a bundle on air transfers.’

‘Look, I need a name for my file.’

‘We have a number for you if that helps. Might make things simpler all round. Specially when it comes time to shoot her up with whatever you’re testing.’

‘Thanks, I’m familiar with the theory,’ Richard replied.

After the first trial of the drug DH-741, a memo had been issued to all employees at Meditech involved in animal testing that all subjects were to be known by a number only, and that under absolutely no circumstances were they to be given a name or referred to by anything other than their number. Anyone referring to an animal by name was to be immediately reported to Human Resources. The ostensible reason was that it would reduce the likelihood of data from subjects being mixed up, but Richard suspected another reason. Give something a name and you give it an identity.

Very few of the scientists had bothered to name their subjects anyway. They sneered at any anthropomorphic tendencies among their colleagues, regarding the prescribing of human traits to animals as childish. However, Richard suspected that their attitude stemmed from a desire to close down their own feelings. At best the animals suffered discomfort, at worst an agonizing death.

Richard had looked at it differently. If two dozen primates had to go through hell to develop a treatment that could save thousands of lives, then the end justified the means. When his wife died from cancer it had only strengthened his belief. Now, standing in this room, it occurred to him that the means had just increased exponentially. And for him, so had the end. Refusal risked the termination of the thing he cared about more than anything in the world: Josh. Acceptance required him to cross into moral territory from which there was no return.

‘OK, I’ll put her down as subject zero one,’ Richard said, swivelling his neck round to look up at Brand.

‘Catchy,’ Brand replied.

Richard turned back to Mareta, just as she puffed out her cheeks and launched a gob of spit straight at his face. It caught him just above the left eye and started to dribble down his cheek towards his mouth.

Trying not to look at her, he wiped it away with the sleeve of his lab coat. When he took bloods he’d ask the lab to run a check for hepatitis.

It was time to get to work.

When people imagined New York, they thought first of the skyline and then of the press of bodies. But on the right block, at the right time, you could be all alone, with not a soul around. That’s where Carrie was now. Ten blocks from home. And the silence meant she could hear the scuff of footsteps behind her as clear as crystal.

The footsteps quickened. She glanced back but didn’t see anyone. She could feel the presence of the person following her now. A man, almost definitely a man.

Her hand went into her pocket and she felt for the small canister of mace. It was a gift from Lock, accompanied by a lengthy explanation. A knife can be taken off you. Ditto a gun. A taser, the latest must-have for ladies who lunch, too tricky to deploy. Miss with the stinger and you have to get in close. A rape alarm? Someone had to make a decision to get involved, and this was New York. So he’d given her pepper spray and taught her a few moves: elbow strike, double-handed fend-off. All designed with only one end in mind: to give her enough time to get away. As he told it, that’s all bodyguarding was anyway. Organized running away.

She felt for the red cap at the top of the canister and flicked it forward. Felt for the trigger just beneath that. Used her index finger to move round the cold metal and locate the nozzle. The last thing she wanted to do was spray herself.