Читать книгу The Immune - Doc Lucky Meisenheimer - Страница 18

John attempted a valiant escape as his bindings were cut. Unfortunately, his captors were experienced in transporting the unwilling. John quickly found himself in shackles; arms pulled above his head by chains. His feet were in the blue pool and, looking down, he could see several measuring probes and coils in the base. Upon lifting his head, he met the smiling features of Captain Stewart. Stewart stuck his face three inches from John’s nose.

“Doctor, I have to cause extreme pain so your sebaceous glands will release the needed protein,” said Stewart, “Benzene will solubilize and wash it into the collecting basin. I’ll then extract the protein from the benzene. I hope you’ll be cooperative.” Stewart laughed.

“I can’t believe Senator Snivaling knows what you’re doing,” said John.

“Not only does she know, she placed a special order just for you,” Stewart said and poked John in the chest.

“Impossible,” said John, “There’s no way a United States senator and ASC official could be aware of what goes on here.”

“Now that’s a laugh,” said Stewart, “Not only is she aware, but she personally developed the residual extraction process. You didn’t know it, but before she replaced her deceased husband in the senate, she was a biochemist. Before Snivaling, we were tossing bodies to pigs after we extracted only ninety percent of the protein.”

Stewart picked up an apparatus off the dissection instrument table. It looked like a hot glue gun with three tips. He pulled the trigger, and the tips glowed orange. He smiled.

“The last ten percent we couldn’t recover by the live stimulation wash technique,” Stewart continued, “She postulated a slow benzene drip over several days might capture another seven to eight percent, and she was right. When we tried using the drip on skins without a previous live stimulation, we recovered less overall than the combination.”

“Why on earth kill people?” said John. “You could harvest more protein later.”

“Good try, Doctor, but we already attempted that,” said Stewart. “After the benzene wash, whatever was making those glands produce the protein stopped working. So we extract what we can get and discard the offal. So sorry.” Then he laughed and said, “Not really,” and laughed again.

“For God’s sake, what protein do you want from my skin?” John shouted.

“Doctor, my question and answer time is over,” Stewart turned, “You may direct further questions to our porcine friends shortly.” He then started laughing loudly.

Captain Stewart motioned to one of the hooded men and commanded, “Prep him and strip him.”

The “prep” was a bucket of ice water tossed on John. The hooded man grabbed John’s pale blue surf shorts and stripped them down. As the shorts caught on his feet, they turned inside out, revealing the red inner lining. The man bent farther to get a better grip, and John wrapped his legs around the man’s neck and squeezed.

John thought, in a movie, the henchman would pass out. He would free himself, then kick Captain Stewart’s ass. This didn’t happen. The hooded man’s cohort slugged John once in the solar plexus, and John, for the second time in one day, lost consciousness.

When John awoke, he was lying on the ground outside the processing building. His shorts were back on, and his hands remained bound behind his back. He looked around and didn’t see Captain Stewart nor the hooded guards. Captain Flinch was standing over him talking on his cell phone.

John couldn’t hear the conversation on the other end of the line, but on this end, the captain was saying a lot of “yes sirs” and “no sirs.” The captain pulled a knife from a sheath strapped to his ankle. John tensed.

“Dr. Long,” said Flinch in a formal tone, “there appears to have been a slight misunderstanding. You have my apology. I’ll be removing your restraints.”

At that moment, the van that brought them pulled up. Captain Flinch turned toward the van and shouted, “We’re heading to Central ASAP.” He then looked back to John and said, “Dr. Long, I was following orders. I’m sure you understand. I’ve been instructed to aid you.” He bent down and cut John’s restraints.

“Well then,” said John, “send the limo on its way. I think I’ll walk.”

Captain Flinch, who seemed disappointed in the change in John’s status, said, “That I can’t allow. I’m under orders to deliver you to Central.”

Sergeant Clark, now out of the van, extended his hand to John to help him to his feet.

As the three were walking toward the van, Captain Flinch asked, “By the way, just how did you kill the airwar?”

John, who was seething, hesitated, then spoke, “Well, the airwar had me trapped inside. I tried everything, but nothing worked. Then I thought back to my medical school days.”

Flinch was listening intently as John continued, “I located the airwar ’s rectum, and I shoved my head in it. I held it there until the airwar died of constipation. I’m naming it the ‘Flinch maneuver.’ I hope you enjoy the reverse eponym; I plan to make it famous.” Sergeant Clark smiled and suppressed a laugh. Captain Flinch stalked ahead and sat in silence the remainder of the trip.

It was a two-hour drive and John tried to glean some information from Sergeant Clark. The only answer he could get was, “Sorry, sir, I’m not at liberty to discuss anything with you at this time.” The other marines’ response was the same.

Once the van reached Central, it was another thirty minutes before they entered the building. Three checkpoints needed clearance. The first checkpoint presented the most difficulty because the pot-bellied Sergeant Baker wanted ID verification for everyone. This was impossible for John, as he was clothed only with the light blue surfing shorts with no form of identification. Captain Flinch’s entreaties, then veiled threats, had no impact on the sergeant.

Sergeant Baker ’s speed seemed to become inversely proportional to the degree of flushing on Flinch’s face. Finally, after several minutes, the sergeant had seemingly satiated his power lust.

“Everyone can pass except for Mr. Blue shorts,” said Sergeant Baker, “He must remain outside the gate until he presents proper identification.”

“Sergeant, you open this damn gate and let all of us pass,” screamed Captain Flinch, who looked on the verge of apoplexy, “If you don’t, all hell’s breaking loose.”

“Captain,” said Sergeant Baker smugly, “I must remind you your rank doesn’t supersede checkpoint security protocol. If your current behavior continues, I have every right to detain you as well.”

John, who was enjoying the show, couldn’t help notice Flinch’s hand shifting to the grip of his holstered pistol. Sergeant Baker noticed this, too, and motioned with his left hand. Two sentries appeared with M-14s aimed at the van. At that moment, a jeep from Central skidded up to the checkpoint. Colonel Vickers vaulted from the back seat and stalked toward the sergeant. The sergeant immediately snapped to attention and saluted.

The colonel, without returning the salute, demanded, “Corporal, why have these men not been checked through?”

“It’s Sergeant Baker, sir.”

“Not anymore,” said the colonel.

John noticed beginnings of a slight smile on Captain Flinch’s face.

Sergeant Baker began to speak, “Sir, I was—”

“Pass these men through—NOW!” interrupted the colonel harshly. He waved to the gun-bearing sentries, who immediately opened the gate. At the next two check points there were no delays. John could hear his heart pounding, but sat motionless as he was whisked to his fate.