David Robbins - Boston Run

“Oh, no!” the nurse said.

Berwin glanced at the elevator, then at the nurse. She had turned to her left, away from the office.

“Nelson!” the nurse called out. “The elevator!”

Quickly Berwin glided to the office and tried the doorknob. To his delight the door opened, and he hastily slid into the cool, dark interior and closed the door quietly. Diffuse light rimmed the border of the heavy yellow drapes covering the large window on the far side of the room. A massive oaken desk occupied the center of the floor. To the left, along the wall, was a sofa. To the right, metal cabinets.

Records!

Berwin stood and angled toward the cabinets.

“The elevator is on its way up!” the nurse warned the guard. “Hurry it up, Nelson!”

Berwin estimated he had two minutes, at the most. He reached the file cabinets and tugged on the top drawer. Locked. In mounting urgency, with repeated looks at the door, he attempted to open each of the drawers.

Every one was locked.

Damn.

“Come on, Nelson!” the nurse yelled.

“Don’t have a heart attack,” came a reply from down the hall.

Feeling supremely frustrated, Berwin attempted to open the last drawer without success. He scowled and turned toward the door.

“About time,” the nurse outside said.

“I’m here, aren’t I? Don’t sweat it,” Nelson told her, his voice growing louder with every word.

Berwin paused, confounded. He couldn’t escape from the office with the guard back on duty. But what if the person riding the elevator came in?

He spied a closet a few feet to the left of the metal cabinets and dashed on over.

From the corridor came the ting of a bell.

“Colonel Krittenbauer,” the guard declared.

“Refer to me as Nurse Krittenbauer, you cretin,” snapped a familiar voice. “What if our patient were to overhear you?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Nelson replied dutifully. “It won’t ever happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t,” Krittenbauer commanded.

Berwin opened the closet, within which he could distinguish white uniforms and other clothes hanging on a rack. On the floor were several pairs of shoes. Assorted items were piled in the corners. He secreted himself inside and drew the door to within an inch of the jamb, leaving the narrow space so he could see the room.

None too soon.

A burst of light flooded the office and Nancy Krittenbauer entered. She walked to the metal cabinets, produced a key from one of her uniform pockets, and unlocked the top drawer.

Berwin watched her flip through dozens of manila folders. She selected several and stepped to a plush chair facing the oaken desk. As she settled into the chair, Milton came in.

“You’re back from lunch early,” Krittenbauer commented.

“I didn’t have much of an appetite,” Milton replied. He closed the door, went around the desk, and sat down with a sigh.

“I didn’t hear the elevator,” Krittenbauer said.

“I used the stairs,” Milton informed her. He placed his elbows on the desk top and supported his chin in his hands.

“Our star patient?”

“Who else?” Milton responded morosely.

“Are you upset about the possible ramifications of the incident with the janitor?” Krittenbauer inquired.

“Aren’t you? If we fail, the general will bury us alive.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

Milton sat back in his chair. “Hey, you’re the one who mentioned firing squads, as I recall.”

Krittenbauer deposited the manila folders on the edge of the desk. “So how bad can it be?”

“There are so many variable factors involved, it’s difficult to make an accurate assessment,” Milton said. ” If they really talked about Jennings’ work and nothing else, and if Jennings didn’t reveal any information concerning our facility, and if the drug hasn’t worn off prematurely, and if the Warrior’s suspicions weren’t aroused, then we might be in good shape.”

“You don’t exactly inspire confidence,” Krittenbauer remarked. “Do you think Jennings blabbed?’”

“He claims he didn’t. But he’s smart enough to realize the trouble he’d be in if we knew he divulged any details,” Milton said. He smacked the desk in anger. “Damn that stupid guard! I hope the general strings Private Crane up by the balls.”

“He just might,” Krittenbauer stated, and smirked.

“We’re so close to eliciting the information the general wants. The memories are starting to surface, just as our research demonstrated would be the case.”

“Experimental drugs are notoriously unreliable. I wouldn’t place a lot of faith in the Memroxin.”

“We have a general sketch of the interior of the Home thanks to the Memroxin,” Milton reminded her.

“But the general wants more than a mere sketch. He wants precise information, nothing less than a detailed layout of the entire compound.

He wants to know the purpose for every building, and who lives in which cabin. When the HGP Unit goes in, they’ll need accurate intelligence to coordinate their attack properly,” Krittenbauer said.

“If the Memroxin doesn’t wear off, we’ll acquire the data the general desires.”

“And then the fun part begins,” Krittenbauer mentioned.

“The fun part?”

“Extracting his semen for our impregnation program should be mildly diverting. I’m certain he’ll resist. The Warrior is disgustingly noble.”

Berwin knit his brow in perplexity. There was that word again.

Warrior. Why did he tingle every time she spoke it? He must be the Warrior to whom she referred. But what significance did the word carry?

What type of Warrior was he?

“Did you know the second set of tests have confirmed the initial series?”

Milton asked.

“When did you hear?” Krittenbauer responded, leaning forward.

“This morning shortly before the fiasco with the janitor,” Milton said.

“The written report will be on my desk by this evening. His genes appear to be virtually disease free. They rate his heritable disease quotient as almost nil.”

“No wonder the general has ordered he be kept alive and unharmed at all costs. Think of the contribution he can make to future generations.”

“And now you can appreciate why the general decided to use the Memroxin to extract the information. Except for the typical disorientation while the patient is under the influence of the drug, there are no known side effects,” Milton said.

“Shouldn’t one of us go check on our star patient?” Krittenbauer asked.

Berwin tensed. They’d discover he wasn’t in his room and sound a general alarm. He had to stop them!

“I’ll go,” Milton offered.

“Let me. We’re developing quite a rapport.”

Berwin ran his hands over the floor, groping about for anything he could use as a weapon. His right hand bumped into a thin, upright object leaning in the corner, knocking it over, and the object slid to the floor, missing the clothes, making a scratching noise. Berwin pulled back from the closet door.

“What was that?” Milton asked absently.

“Did one of your lab mice escape?” Krittenbauer quipped.

“Not to my knowledge,” Milton said.

Berwin heard the man rise and walk toward the closet. A fleeting panic seized him, and he clenched his fists and willed his mind to stay calm.

“I really should clean out this closet,” Milton commented, “I stuff everything in here, and I never know what will fall out next.”

The door swung open.

For a second both men were transfixed, Berwin huddled on the floor, coiled to spring, while Milton gaped in amazement at the giant.

“Any mice in there?” Krittenbauer joked, her view of the closet obstructed by the physician.