Not trusting her legs to hold her, Meg knelt, reached up and turned off the water. Still shaking, Meg pushed the door to the shower stall open and crawled over the threshold, naked and wet. She didn’t stop. She kept crawling slowly out of her bathroom and made it to the edge of her bed.
Clawing the fitted sheet in her weak efforts, she finally managed to crawl on top of the bed and pulled her rumpled blanket over herself completely. Her wet hair soaked into the unsuspecting pillow and she shivered uncontrollably, so she cocooned herself, head and all, in the blanket and passed out for the second time in an hour.
There was only blackness at first.
Peaceful, delicious blackness.
Meg even remembered thinking maybe she escaped the nightmares this time.
Maybe that’s all it took—a solid whack to the head and passing out equaled restful sleep.
She wasn’t so lucky.
This time her nightmare started in an unfamiliar, sterile white hospital laboratory.
She looked down in her hand and saw the two metal orbs she loved to hold, dancing around each other, making a rhythmic scraping sound as they moved.
Meg was wearing black gloves and noticed red blood streaking the cuff of her perfectly tailored white shirt. Looking more closely, she saw her wrist was oozing from open wounds. Absently, she wondered why she didn’t feel the pain she should have from such injuries.
Across the room was a man wearing a standard white lab coat. Part of her frowned at the fleeting thought that she’d seen this man before. Meg concentrated on the man’s mouth as he spoke, trying desperately to hear what he was saying.
Chapter 21 The Perfect Specimen
“…injuries. The chemical induced coma you’ve ordered can’t last forever, sir. We’ve taken all we need from him. He’s ready.” Dr. Chaunders had grown the smallest of spines over the last two months. He had to.
“What do the others on the team think?” Dr. Williams asked, staring at the soldier through the one-way mirror.
“It’s all in the report, sir. We believe when the subject crushed the two glass vials of Infinite I serum in his hand, an undetermined amount made its way through the cuts into his bloodstream, essentially dosing him. His injuries were so extensive it should have taken him weeks to recover, even with his metahuman rapid healing abilities, but it took less than half the time anticipated.” Chaunders stopped and looked to the director.
“Continue.” Williams stood unmoving except the gloved hand rotating the metal orbs, causing a whispered scraping sound as they moved.
“As you’re aware, sir, the subject regained consciousness on the ninth day. When he awoke, he claimed to have no memory of the events between his Retribution Match last October and now. He woke thinking he was recovering from his battle against his brother, Gavil Young.” Chaunders held the report he and his team meticulously created based on scrupulous notes over the last seven weeks. He didn’t have to look at it during his briefing with Dr. Williams. He memorized everything about this case.
“During the explosion at the St. Paul lab, the subject suffered an injury to his prefrontal cortex. As you know, that location in the brain is widely believed to house long-term memory. Per your orders, we conducted a battery of tests to be sure the memories were wiped clean. Every test came back as definitive as scientifically possible.
“He truly has no memory of ever leaving the Facility. He knows nothing of the Winters. As far as he’s concerned, the worst thing he’s ever done is refused to kill his brother at the Match.” Chaunders stopped talking and risked looking at Williams for insight into what he was thinking. His face was a bloody, blank slate.
“As we’ve completed the last of the testing you requested the chemical induced coma is no longer necessary.” Chaunders waited for his boss to say something.
Only the sound of the metallic spheres scraping against one another could be heard in the otherwise silent room.
After a few minutes, he could wait no longer. “Your orders, sir?” Chaunders carefully prompted.
Dr. Williams walked up to the one-way window and studied the sleeping body of Creed Young. He looked the picture of health. As the doctor thought, his lips began pursing together and puckering—pursing and puckering, repeatedly. He didn’t know this about himself, but he only performed the grotesque movements when deep in thought.