2017:
The room I'm in is about thirteen feet square and white. Overwhelmingly white. It's all masonry brick except for one wall that is floor-to-ceiling, end-to-end mirror. I have no doubt that on the other side it's a window. I am self-conscious about anything I do that could be embarrassing. I watch myself for nervous tics, unconscious nose-picking, something like that. I don't know why I care what these assholes think, but for some reason I do.
I met Dr. Sutton this morning. He came in to give me a physical. Pulse, knee-hammer, turn your head and cough. The whole nine yards. He didn't say one word to me. He inspected me like I was a car he was interested in. Cupping my testicles was his version of kicking the tires. Nothing more.
I called him Dr. Mengele. That got a reaction. His face turned bright red. He looked at me like I was broken. This one's got a faulty transmission. It will need a tune up.
The two soldiers that had accompanied him waited until he left to work me over. Afraid to hurt his delicate sensibilities, I'm sure. I imagine him crying softly to himself as he writes sad poetry about how I hurt his feelings. The image helps a little. Not much. Too far-fetched I suppose.
I worry about Lucas. We Shaughnessy boys are a sassy bunch and he doesn't have my self-control.
The door opens and two new soldiers enter. I recognize one as Bacchus. They're with a small, squirrely man wearing rubber gloves and a surgical mask, carrying a bucket. He's here to clean my dirty Irish blood from these clean white walls.
Bacchus looks impressed. "I guess he really didn't like what you said," he says. "Your brother got off light."
"Oh yeah?" I say. "What did he say?"
"He called Sutton 'Dr. Frankenstein'."
"Psh," I say. "No originality, that kid."
Bacchus studies me. "This Zombie Fist thing...what are you? Escaped mental patients? You're all nuts."
I laugh. "What did Gigi do?"
"Nothing," Bacchus says. "He just sits there and stares. Sutton won't go in there at all. Your boy has a way of looking right at you even though he can't see you."
"Gigi is magic," I say. "He's our Mexican leprechaun."
"I believe that's called a chupacabra," Bacchus says.
If our situation were different, I may like this Bacchus bloke.
The squirrely fellow finishes cleaning the walls and leaves. Bacchus gives me a small nod before he goes. I think I made a friend. Yay me.
I'm so bored. I'm the kind of guy that needs constant stimulation. What you might call short attention span. I need something shiny to distract me at all times or the boredom overtakes me. Like now. I pace back and forth. I walk up to the mirror and inspect my lumpy face. I still have all of my teeth, so I count myself better than Lucas.
I want someone to come in so that I can provoke them, just for something to do.
It's hours before someone does. Bacchus again. He stands guard while the squirrely guy slides a tray of food across the floor. The squirrely guy leaves and come back with a bucket. I know what the bucket is for.
"What," I say. "You're too good to scrub my shit up now?" Bacchus cracks a smile.
"How are my boys?" I ask.
"Your brother made a smart-ass comment about shit," Bacchus says. "Not quite as good as yours. And the big Mexican keeps staring. Sometimes he sleeps."
"It's one of his most endearing qualities," I say. "Sometimes he eats, too."
"I guess we'll see," he says.
"And Dante?" I ask.
"That area is restricted," he says. "I don't have access."
I humph, then nudge the food tray with my foot. "Is it poison?" I ask.
"What would be the point?" he says. "Anything we want to do to you, we can do to you. We don't need subterfuge."
"I love transparency in government," I say.
Bacchus' smile fades. "Yeah," he says. He gives me that little nod again and he leaves. Poor guy. He looked a little sad.
I don't eat. Despite my wisenheimery, I don't trust food prepared by captors. That's long been a policy of mine. Instead, I alleviate my boredom by crumbling the bread into my mashed potatoes and mixing the concoction with the unidentified hunk of meat. I paint the word "POOP" on the floor with the food paste I've made, using the edge of the tray to make sure the straight lines are perfectly straight, and using the bottom of my bucket to make sure the curves are perfectly curvy. I'm looking forward to telling the squirrely fellow to clean my poop off the floor. Chuckle chuckle guffaw.
God, I'm so bored.
I close my eyes.
When I wake up, my room is clean. No bucket, no tray, no "POOP". I don't normally sleep that heavily. I look around the room and see the air vents again with fresh eyes. Anything they want to do to me, they can do. Including pumping in a gas that knocks me out. Message received: the potatoes are safe.
Bacchus comes back with Starin. They study me.
"I pooped on the floor," I say.
"I saw that," Bacchus says. "Very clever."
"Him?" Starin asks Bacchus.
"I think so," Bacchus says. "All three of them, actually."
Starin looks at me. "When we found you, you were unarmed."
I interrupt him. "I had a crowbar," I correct.
"Regardless," he says. "Can you handle a gun?"
"Emotionally? I mean, if you would have asked me a week ago, I would have said 'no', but now I'm a little on the fence, to be honest."
Starin looks at Bacchus. "Not him," he says. "The Mexican for sure, and the other one maybe, but not him."
"Hey," I say. "Whatever you've got planned, I'll tell you right now: the Mexican and the little one don't do anything without me."
"What makes you think you want to be picked?" Starin says. “What makes you think this is for something good?”
"Regardless," I say. "Good or bad, we ride together."
Starin seems to assess this. Then they leave.
I wake up feeling groggy and mentally off. I'm learning to associate that feeling with the gas. They want me to think that I dreamt them. Or at least doubt myself.
The day passes in boredom. The lights go out and I know that it's nighttime. I sleep. The lights come on. It's daytime. My food tray and waste bucket are back. Someone brought it in the night. I don't even have that meager human contact to break the monotony. I eat the food. It tastes like cafeteria food. I contribute to the bucket. I hope they're watching.
I worry about the girls. I hope they don't get it in their heads to do something stupid like attempt a rescue. But I sure do wish they would rescue me.
They day rolls on. I spend most of it pacing and making faces at the mirror, just for something to do.
The door opens. Two soldiers I don't know come in, accompanied by Dr. Sutton.
"Mengele!" I call out enthusiastically. He ignores me. He nods to someone on the other side of the glass, and then someone wheels a gurney in. The gurney has straps dangling from the sides.
"I'm not going to like this," I say. For the first time, Sutton acknowledges me with a creepy smile. He writes something on a clipboard he's carrying with him, then nods to the military orderlies. They grab me, lift me, and lay me down on the gurney. I long for my rape whistle.
"It always comes back to the anal probe," I say. "Listen, I'm a lady. At least buy me flowers."
"You joke the most when you're scared," the doctor says. He must be a master psychologist to have figured it out.
I'm thrashing to no avail. The straps are tightened around me and it reminds me all too much about that female zombie we liberated at the farmhouse.
"I need to run some tests," he says. "I would have gassed you but I don't want that in your system. Hence the theatrics."
They start to wheel the gurney out and I panic. "Come on, guys, I'll be good. I don't want to play anymore. Come on."
I'm wheeled into an operating theater. The top level is all stadium seating. About a quarter of the seats are filled with men in suits and ties. I recognize the president of the United States (former president? former United States?) among them. "Hey," I shout to him. "I voted for you!" I didn't. He ignores me.
"As you may remember," Sutton says to the crowd, "there were some anomalies in the old man's blood. Seeming variations of the strain we've isolated from the zombies, but drastically malformed. The question is: is it dangerous? And can we use it?" He motions someone forward and they hand him a syringe filled with blood. "Today we'll attempt to inject 10 cc's into an uninfected subject to gauge the likelihood of infection."
Oh, I don't like this at all. The needle stabs. I scream at them. The plunger sinks, and I feel rushing heat enter my veins at the point of insertion. My blood itches, and the itching spreads as the infected blood dissolves and disperses amongst my good blood.
My screaming turns shrill. I am crying.
I feel the needle slide out.
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