Will Hill - Department 19

Jamie lay still for a few minutes, then sat back up, grunting at the pain in his neck and arm, and pushed himself off the bed. He wobbled, his legs unsteady beneath him, and reached out and gripped the top of the white cabinet. As his equilibrium returned, he looked around and saw his clothes, neatly folded on a low shelf on the other side of the infirmary. He walked gingerly over to them and dressed himself, slowly, searching for the memories of the previous night. Then he looked around the infirmary, and gasped as his faltering memory was jolted into life.

A man was lying in one of the beds on the other side of the room, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling slowly. Jamie walked over and stood beside him, watching the man breathe. His skin was brighter than it had been the previous night, but it was still pale. His right arm was swathed in bandages, and blood ran steadily from an IV hung above his bed. Jamie watched, fascinated, as the crimson liquid crawled down the plastic tube and slid into the man’s vein.

There was someone else. There was a boy.

The memory hit him hard, and he looked over at the door marked THEATRE. A dark shape lay beyond the frosted glass, and he walked towards it. He hesitated, standing in front of the door, then pushed it slowly open.

The teenager lay in a single bed in the middle of the room. Beside him, a tall array of equipment beeped and flashed steadily, and a green line spiked slowly, over and over. Wires ran from the machines and were attached to the boy’s chest and arms. His eyes were closed, and his skin was ghostly white. Jamie stood by the door, frozen, staring at him.

He’s my age. He’s just a kid.

Slowly, he crossed the room and stood beside the starched white bed.

“What happened to you?” he whispered.

“He was bitten,” replied a voice from behind him, and Jamie’s heart leapt in his chest. He spun around, and saw the doctor who had examined him standing in the open doorway. “What are you doing in here?” the man asked.

“I remembered seeing him in the hangar,” replied Jamie. “Is he going to be all right?”

“Did you touch anything?” asked the doctor, ignoring Jamie’s question.

He shook his head. “Is he going to be all right?” he repeated, his voice rising ever so slightly.

The doctor walked to the end of the bed, pulled a metal chart from a clip, scanned it quickly, and replaced it. Then he rubbed his eyes, and looked at Jamie.

“It’s too early to say,” he said, softly. “He lost an enormous amount of blood, and his heart stopped as we were transfusing. We resuscitated him, but his brain may have been damaged by the lack of oxygen. We induced a coma, to give him the best chance. Now we just have to wait.”

Jamie stared blankly at the doctor.

His heart stopped. We induced a coma. His heart stopped.

“How long?” he managed. “How long until you know if he’s all right?”

The doctor shrugged.

“A few days, maybe longer. Once the swelling on his brain has gone down, we’ll wake him up. And then we’ll see.”

The man shook his head quickly, and when he looked at Jamie again he was all business.

“Go on, get out of here,” he said. “Go and find Colonel Frankenstein. And don’t come in here again without permission. This boy is in a very delicate condition, and the next twenty-four hours are vital.”

Jamie backed towards the door, unable to tear his gaze from the teenager’s blank, pale face. There were no lines on his skin, no wrinkles or blemishes; he looked like a mannequin.

“What’s his name?” he asked, as he reached the open door.

“Matt,” said the doctor, who was consulting the chart for a second time. He didn’t look up as he answered. “Matt Browning.”

Jamie walked down the corridor outside the infirmary, keeping his eyes on the grey walls, looking for a lift. Just before the corridor ended in a flat black screen that stretched from floor to ceiling, he saw a button marked CALL outlined on the wall to his right. He pressed his thumb to the button and waited.

Seconds later the wall in front of him slid open, revealing a metal lift, He stepped inside, and examined the fluorescent yellow buttons set into a black panel at waist height; they were marked 0, A, B, C, D, E, F, G and H, and the C button was glowing red.

Well at least I know where I am . That’s a start.

He looked at the piece of paper the doctor had given him.

Level E. Two more floors down.

He was suddenly overcome with the desire for sunlight and fresh air. He didn’t want to go further into the depths of this strange place.

He pressed the 0 button. The door slid closed silently behind him and the lift started to rise with a soft whirring noise and a gentle rattling of metal. When the doors opened again Jamie found himself looking down yet another grey corridor. However, at the end of this new passage were a pair of double doors striped with yellow and black, and he had a feeling that these led back into the hangar where he had been attacked.

He walked towards the doors, noticing as he did so a thin digital ticker set into the wall above them, yellow-green capital letters scrolling right to left, over and over.

0652 / 22.10.09 / SHIFT PATTERN: NORMAL /THREAT LEVEL: 3

Ten to seven . My alarm wouldn’t even go off for another fifty-five minutes if I was at home.

He crept up to the double doors and inched one of them open. The huge sliding doors that opened on to the runway were now shut, and the hangar was deserted. Jamie walked out into the middle of the huge room, painfully aware of the quiet slapping noise his trainers made on the concrete floor.

He walked across to a door at the right-hand edge of the giant double doors and tried its handle. It turned, and he stepped through it into the cool bright morning air.

Jamie Carpenter jogged across the wide concrete landing area in front of the hangar, then cut on to the grass, heading towards the long runway that sliced through the centre of the vast circular base. He sprinted across it, his feet pounding the tarmac, his arms pumping, his mother’s face looming large in his mind, his heart heavy with worry.

He bore right and darted between two of the long metal huts that lined this side of the runway, hit open grass and accelerated, running towards the high wire fence in the distance and the bright red laser net beyond it, the giant projection rippling above him, hanging in the clear sky like a painted cloud.

But as he approached the fence he saw something that seemed totally out of place. About fifty yards inside the high wire wall a circular section of the grass, perhaps twenty feet in diameter, had been dug up and replaced by a rose garden.

A waist-high red brick wall ran around the edge, with an opening facing away from the fence and back towards the base. Inside, a thin path of wooden boards widened into a semi-circular area against the back wall, flanked on both sides by roses of every conceivable colour: red, white, pink, yellow, even a purple so dark it was almost black.

Jamie slowed his pace and walked through the gap in the wall. He was immediately overcome by the scent of the flowers, the subtly different aromas of the many varieties mingling into a heady, pungent smell so rich and luxurious that it took his breath away. He wandered down the narrow wooden path, intoxicated by the garden’s incongruous beauty. At the back of the garden Jamie could see a small bronze plaque set into the brick wall. He crouched down in front of it, and read the words that had been engraved on it, in simple, elegant lettering.

IN REMEMBRANCE OFJOHN AND GEORGE HARKERWHO DIED AS THEY LIVED: TOGETHER