but she easily made out the containment couches and the figures lying upon them.
Details emerged from the monochromatic view. She could make out the darker gray of the body bags each figure lay upon. Her logical mind filled in the orange they used for the RA body bags. Orange for RA, white for Lycan, black for Blood. Even after death, the Project worked at keeping the three strains separate.
Terrified moans reached through the thick plate glass. The lights snapped on, making her wince and squint. She cast a glance over her shoulder. Fitzgerald smirked as his hand left a bank of light switches. Her eyes narrowed as she contemplated killing him, slowly. She’d rip his throat out if she weren’t convinced that stupidity, like the three viruses, was transmittable through blood.
“Oh my God, no. Please no. P-please…I beg of you. Don’t do this.”
The terrified whimper from the room stopped Antonia dead. Filled with utter terror, it was familiar. A man’s voice.
Garry’s voice.
It took her an eternity to turn, as she prayed that she’d heard incorrectly. It wasn’t Garry. It couldn’t be her med-tech, the guy who had looked after her since her accident, strapped to a bed with the rest and about to be turned into the living dead.
“Please…someone help me. There’s been a mistake. I’m Garry Stephens. I work here!”
Her hope cut off dead as he said his name. He was in the middle, in full view from the window, flanked on each side by other couches. They were all occupied. Each had an orange jump-suited figure lying on an orange body bag. Color coordination, she liked it.
The other subjects lay silently, barely moving, with their eyes wide and pupils dilated. Death-row prisoners. All drugged out of their skulls to mimic the humane death they should have undergone. Instead, the Project had appropriated their bodies for “scientific research”.
She snorted to herself. The government had always concealed weapons research under that banner. Garry was different, though. He wasn’t drugged, still in the clothes she’d seen him in the day before, and terrified.
Her gaze snapped to Fitzgerald as he came to stand next to her. “What’s he doing in there? He’s a member of staff.”
“I’m aware of that.” The colonel turned his head to look at her, and Antonia read the answer in his eyes. Garry wasn’t in there because he’d done anything wrong. He was there because of her.
He’d die for her mistake, whatever the hell it had been.
“Oh, for fucks sake. You can’t do this.”
Her words exploded out of her, escaping before she could censor them.
“If I’ve done something wrong, punish me. Not him.”
“I think you need to remember who you’re talking to, Major Fielding.”
Fitzgerald’s voice seemed to whip out in the sudden silence of the room. Even Garry, on the other side of the thick plate glass, fell silent as though he could sense the standoff taking place mere feet from him.
“Dr. Stephens violated one of our prime directives within the Project and allowed himself to get too close to his subjects.” Fitzgerald’s lip curled as he raked a scathing glance over her, leaving her in no doubt about his feelings.
She barely managed to catch her answering snarl in time. Prime directive? What the fuck…? Did he think they were in some episode of Star Trek ?
“Subjects?” Voice light, she gave him a poker face to look at again. She only just managed it, the air around her virtually humming with her anger. “I thought the politically correct term was patients.”
Fitzgerald’s eye started to twitch at the corner, a reddish purple flush blooming over his skin like a sunrise over the desert. Antonia didn’t drop her gaze like a good little minion. Just watched as the red turned redder and a wave of purple washed down his neck.
His heart pounded out a furious and angry beat as his blood pressure rose, the heat of the red fluid within the thin casing
Details emerged from the monochromatic view. She could make out the darker gray of the body bags each figure lay upon. Her logical mind filled in the orange they used for the RA body bags. Orange for RA, white for Lycan, black for Blood. Even after death, the Project worked at keeping the three strains separate.
Terrified moans reached through the thick plate glass. The lights snapped on, making her wince and squint. She cast a glance over her shoulder. Fitzgerald smirked as his hand left a bank of light switches. Her eyes narrowed as she contemplated killing him, slowly. She’d rip his throat out if she weren’t convinced that stupidity, like the three viruses, was transmittable through blood.
“Oh my God, no. Please no. P-please…I beg of you. Don’t do this.”
The terrified whimper from the room stopped Antonia dead. Filled with utter terror, it was familiar. A man’s voice.
Garry’s voice.
It took her an eternity to turn, as she prayed that she’d heard incorrectly. It wasn’t Garry. It couldn’t be her med-tech, the guy who had looked after her since her accident, strapped to a bed with the rest and about to be turned into the living dead.
“Please…someone help me. There’s been a mistake. I’m Garry Stephens. I work here!”
Her hope cut off dead as he said his name. He was in the middle, in full view from the window, flanked on each side by other couches. They were all occupied. Each had an orange jump-suited figure lying on an orange body bag. Color coordination, she liked it.
The other subjects lay silently, barely moving, with their eyes wide and pupils dilated. Death-row prisoners. All drugged out of their skulls to mimic the humane death they should have undergone. Instead, the Project had appropriated their bodies for “scientific research”.
She snorted to herself. The government had always concealed weapons research under that banner. Garry was different, though. He wasn’t drugged, still in the clothes she’d seen him in the day before, and terrified.
Her gaze snapped to Fitzgerald as he came to stand next to her. “What’s he doing in there? He’s a member of staff.”
“I’m aware of that.” The colonel turned his head to look at her, and Antonia read the answer in his eyes. Garry wasn’t in there because he’d done anything wrong. He was there because of her.
He’d die for her mistake, whatever the hell it had been.
“Oh, for fucks sake. You can’t do this.”
Her words exploded out of her, escaping before she could censor them.
“If I’ve done something wrong, punish me. Not him.”
“I think you need to remember who you’re talking to, Major Fielding.”
Fitzgerald’s voice seemed to whip out in the sudden silence of the room. Even Garry, on the other side of the thick plate glass, fell silent as though he could sense the standoff taking place mere feet from him.
“Dr. Stephens violated one of our prime directives within the Project and allowed himself to get too close to his subjects.” Fitzgerald’s lip curled as he raked a scathing glance over her, leaving her in no doubt about his feelings.
She barely managed to catch her answering snarl in time. Prime directive? What the fuck…? Did he think they were in some episode of Star Trek ?
“Subjects?” Voice light, she gave him a poker face to look at again. She only just managed it, the air around her virtually humming with her anger. “I thought the politically correct term was patients.”
Fitzgerald’s eye started to twitch at the corner, a reddish purple flush blooming over his skin like a sunrise over the desert. Antonia didn’t drop her gaze like a good little minion. Just watched as the red turned redder and a wave of purple washed down his neck.
His heart pounded out a furious and angry beat as his blood pressure rose, the heat of the red fluid within the thin casing
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