Jo Treggiari - Ashes, Ashes

“She’s a capable girl, that one. A little vindictive, but trustworthy, and her heart’s in the right place.” She swung around. “She’d do anything for the little ones, you know. Quite motherly, although she doesn’t look it.”

“She’s a rat.”

Dr. Lessing laughed. “She was stuck between Charybdis and Scylla.”

“Whatever.”

Lucy didn’t care much about Del anymore.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “The blood tests and all that, that’s in the past.”

“Somehow, within your body, within your blood, you have the ability to withstand a disease that killed almost everyone on Earth. I’d say that’s still relevant, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, but the plague is over.” But then what about Leo ? She shifted again, pressing her spine to the back of the chair. Her brain was so slow and her eyes felt gritty. She wanted to close them. “I mean, it won’t ever come back like before. Will it?” She tried to sit up straighter, but her spine felt like a limp noodle.

“You’re missing the point. The answer is what is important. A scientist can’t rest until she has the answer.”

Rest . That’s what she needed. Just a little nap maybe, and then she’d get Aidan and they’d go home.

Dr. Lessing opened the cabinet. It had plain wooden doors on the outside and looked like it belonged in a kitchen to hold plates and dishes, but its interior was more like a refrigerator. Tubes and vials fitted into individual slots and racks. Some were filled with a clear liquid, others with red. There were hundreds of them. She picked up a tube and tilted it. The lamplight turned it into gooey paint.

“What are all those?” Lucy asked. She rubbed her eyes, stifled a yawn. Her eyelids fluttered and then opened again. She was so tired.

“Answers… questions…” Dr. Lessing murmured. She turned suddenly and stared at Lucy. Her smile was gone. “Every answer fits into a box, and that leads to the next question. That is what is so perfect about science. We can be methodical about it. Blood. Plasma. Serums. Vaccines. The answer is in the blood.”

Lucy had heard that before. It was a creepy phrase and it had stuck in her head. She tried to remember who had said it. Her mind was sluggish. She gripped the arms of the chair, tried to clear the fog. Leo ! Leo had said the same thing.

“Leo!” she said out loud.

Dr. Lessing was suddenly just above her, so close Lucy could see the large pores on her nose, could hear her breathing, heavy and quick, and smell mint candy. The doctor’s soft brown eyes were now hard as pebbles.

“Everything fits, except for you,” Dr. Lessing said. “You should want to help. With your blood, I can synthesize a vaccine. A synthetic duplicate. Even if the disease mutates, I’ll be able to control it.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to be a lab rat. It’s my choice, not yours.”

“It’s an opportunity to help so many people and to keep us safe in the future.”

Her voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

“What did you put in the coffee?” Lucy said. It was difficult to push the words past her lips. Her tongue felt thick.

Her head snapped back, whacking against the chair. Her eyes flew open. Suddenly, she felt as if she were falling from a great height. She struggled to stay awake, but it was impossible. She was drowning, so heavy in her body that she couldn’t help but be pulled under.

Just before her eyes closed for the last time, she heard Dr. Lessing call out to someone unseen: “Kelly, can you please take this cup of coffee to Aidan?”

Lucy woke up. The inside of her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and her head pounded with a dull pain that started behind her eyes and continued to the base of her neck. She’d felt the same way after her wisdom teeth had been pulled. She pressed her thumbs into the flesh of her temples, and then rubbed her fingers over her forehead. The pain didn’t lessen. Her hair felt like one matted clump on top of her head. Her legs and arms were heavy and almost impossible to move. With an effort, she rolled over and opened her eyes. The faint glow cast by a recessed light showed the white walls of a small room, the bed she was lying on, a small metal nightstand with a plastic pitcher and cup, and a tall bucket in the corner. There was a tiny window high up, and the door was closed.

She swung her legs around, put her feet to the linoleum floor. It was cold. Her arms felt stiff and they hurt. Lucy peeled back her shirtsleeves and stared at a trail of new puncture marks that ran up the undersides of both forearms. There were four or five on each arm, and every hole was circled by bruised skin.

Her head spun. She closed her eyes and bit down on her lip, hard enough to make her eyes tear. She would not faint. She would not vomit. She poured herself a glass of water. It was tepid and tasted unpleasant, but it soothed her dry throat. She stood up. The dizziness rushed back and then ebbed. Her bare feet slapped against the tiles as she walked to the door. She twisted the handle. It was locked from the outside. She pressed her hands against it. It was made of steel and was cold against her palms. She clenched her fists and hammered them against the unyielding metal.

Her boots stood against the wall, her socks balled neatly beside them.

She put on her socks and boots. She kicked the door. Finally she gave up. Her toes hurt, her wounded palm throbbed. It was then she noticed that it had been neatly bandaged. A square, flesh-colored adhesive.

“Dr. Lessing,” she yelled. She kept yelling for a few minutes.

Lucy got down on the floor and tried to look underneath the door. It was flush with the linoleum. She ran her fingers along the crack in the doorjamb. She could see the tongue of the bolt lock. Maybe she could jimmy it open. She didn’t have anything, but… her knife! Was her knife still inside her jacket pocket? She scrambled to her feet and went to the bed. She felt the lump from the outside of the jacket, pulled it out, and ran back to the door. She slid her knife in and eased it down until she felt the top of the bolt, then jiggled it gently. She thought it gave a little. She pushed down harder, wiggled the blade to the side. Metal slid on metal. She twisted and pushed at the same time. With a squeal the knife snapped. She was left with three inches of rough blade, a hilt-heavy thing that felt clumsy and unbalanced in her hand. Her father’s knife.

The tears took her by surprise. Hot, they exploded out of her, ripping through her rib cage. When they ceased, she was exhausted. She lay down on the floor, her useless knife clasped between numb fingers. And the door—the door was closed as tightly as ever. The room seemed too small. It didn’t have enough air in it, and her lungs couldn’t get a full breath. She felt the walls pressing down on her.

The window. It was at least fifteen feet above her. She could tell that even by standing on the bed she wouldn’t be able to reach it, even if she could somehow stack the side table onto the bed and then clamber up on top of it without breaking her neck. And it looked too small to squeeze her shoulders through, anyway.

She paced, feeling the frustration well up in her until she was sure she would explode with it. She sank down onto the bed. It felt weird being so far from the ground. She pulled the covers off and heaped them in the corner. She curled up on top of them, shrugged her arms into her leather jacket, and yanked a rough blanket up to her chin. She turned her knife over and over in her hands. The blade was toothed now, two spikes of metal with a sharp edge. Sooner or later Dr. Lessing would come, and she would jump on her and press the knife to her neck and get out of this box.