Page 8 of Agent Zero
And there, on the bed, was a pile of innocent-looking file folders, all in the tasteful mauve that saidpatient.It also saidanonymizedandsafe, and while he might be reprimanded for taking those off the base to work on, he was sure some of the others had also taken one or two home to finish.They weren’t the problem.The problem was that thin thread of crimson in the middle.
A red file, in the middle of the stack.How thehellhad it gotten there?Red files were scan-counted at the end of the day, they would know one was missing.Good luck slipping it back in, too—they’d be on high alert.Donna at the front desk would begin checking IDs and passes again, like the officious little cocker spaniel she was.No, Dr.Heming, I’m afraid I can’t go with you Saturday.Thanks for the invite, though!
He scratched under his belly, sipped at the scotch.God’s perfect drink, full of wonder.It never let you down, like a basketball scholarship gone because of one little hazing incident, or a tenure position because someone else had slept with a board member or two, or a blonde, bubbly trophy wife who forgot her proper place.
There were all sorts of things that...bothered him.Something military—the men were all young, strapping and addedsirto every sentence.The tolerance tests were thought-provoking.Allergy tests, the higher-ups said.As if allergies were a threat big enough to warrant these kinds of resources thrown at them.Really, Heming was a glorified PA in this job; the research facility was in White Oaks.Or at least, that’s where the samples were sent for processing.All Heming did was take the vitals, ask the checkup questions, and write the prissy little reports to Bronson’s exacting specifications.
They were his patients, right?Four, Six, Seven, Eight, Twelve and Fourteen—where were all the other numbers?And those scratches and scrapes on them, healing up so nicely.
Soquickly.
They were his patients, and he had a right to educate himself, didn’t he?It would make his treatment more effective.
He turned back to the dresser, poured himself another scotch.The silver-framed picture next to the bottle was the wedding photo—oh, the cash he’d shelled out for Connie to have that white dress and flower-decked venue she wanted.Two wide, fake smiles glared at him from under a few months’ worth of dust.
“I’m adoctor, dammit.”
Nobody spoke up to disagree.
Jacob sighed, strode across the room and settled on the creaking bed.The folders slid around sloppily on the crocheted bedspread his own mother had given him.Brown and yellow and blue, and tacky as hell.But a man’s arthritic mother had made it — he couldn’t very well throw it out like Connie had wanted, could he?
He pulled the red file out, lingeringly, from the middle of the pile.Classifiedstamped across its cover, the black ink faintly smeared.Maybe that weed-smoking, perpetually lazy bitch nurse Fleming had just grabbed a stack in a hurry.Who knew?
What mattered was, it was here now.Why couldn’t a doctor take a look?There wasn’t any harm in it.Maybe tomorrow he could slip it somewhere, or even throw it away.
You’re an idiot, Jacob.It was Connie’s voice, loud and nasal.She was so pretty, and had been so sweet in the beginning.A little two-bit horse doctor.
Well, he’d graduated top of his class.He could find a way to get rid of some paper.
He flipped the folder open and began scanning.
A few minutes later, the scotch tipped out of his hand and splashed onto the cheap carpet.His heart beat, a harsh thin tattoo in his ears and throat and wrists.
Virology control, one sheet was titled.Tolerances, another.Infection vector, a third.
He kept reading, mouth dry and heart pounding, while the stink of spilled alcohol simmered in his lonely apartment.
SEVEN
Same medical suiteas last time, bare concrete walls and supplies locked down in neatly organized, color-coded bins.They took blood, swabbed his cheek, poked and prodded.Looked at the scrapes on his hands, already closed up.Crackle of the paper onesie, the disinfectant smell overpowering.The nurse was a lean-faced young tomboy, Dr.Heming the same sour-faced civilian douchebag as always, hair combed over his bald spot in strings and his lab coat indifferently laundered.
Heming’s steel-rimmed glasses almost matched Bronson’s.He asked all the usual questions.Any headaches?Any ringing in the ears?Change in sleeping patterns?Change in digestion?
No, no, no.Other than the fact that he’d been drinking water that would give a tourist dysentery, no.
“You’re a little lighter than we like.”Heming peered over his glasses.“Been living rough?”
“Yessir.”They said that with the little bastards swimming around in your blood you could even digest grass, but he hadn’t had to prove it yet.Not even on the BS scavenger hunt meant to test his survival capabilities in the wilderness.
No, he’d eaten meat all through that.Catching your own was supposed to make it taste better.
Heming nodded thoughtfully, paging through the mauve-jacketed file.He never slipped up and left the paperwork where Reese could get his hands on it.Maybe one day—hope sprang eternal, and all that.“Well.You’re scheduled for psych after we’re done here.We have a couple tolerance tests this time, and an extra blood draw.Did you sign the consent form?”
“Yessir.”Like I could refuse.It was just going to be uncomfortable, whatever they injected him with fighting with the...
The virus.The happy little buggers who made him stronger, faster...and smarter.That was the main thing, right?
“Good, good.Well, we’ll get those done, then you can go talk to the headshrinkers.”Heming grinned as though the thought pleased him.Maybe it did.But under that pleasure was a sour whiff of fear.The man was sweating, and Reese filed that away.It wasn’t usual, but what medical man wouldn’t get a little shaky around an agent?Especially if they were poking with needles.Even an idiot might wonder why he was in such great shape.The disclosure agreements, the high pay, the security arrangements?—
