“Jennifer, is that you?”
No response.
“Jennifer, it’s me. It’s Patton.”
No guard or interrogator would have called her by her first name. Prisoners only went by their last names or inmate number. Plus it was such a kind, soft, meek voice. It had been such a long since she’d heard his voice but the figure said his name was Patton. Would someone lie and say they were Patton Larsen, the most wanted man in the community? No. At least not likely. She hadn’t eaten for almost two days and she was sick and dehydrated. Maybe her eyes and ears were playing tricks.
He said it again and her brain was starting to clear itself.
“It’s me. It’s Patton,” he said again.
She lowered the blanket to her waist and rose to an elbow. With another painful effort she pushed herself to the edge of the bed. She paused and then stood, limping across the cold wooden floor towards the figure in the doorway.
As she got closer to the entryway, she could see that it was indeed her husband.
He rushed to her as she collapsed. She fell and hit her hip on the rough wooden floor, but he caught her head and her shoulder. Instead of picking her up, he laid her head softly on the floor and looked at her. Greasy, dirty, sweaty hair matted down to her forehead. Her face was covered with dust and sweat and grease. It all oozed together to create a paste that made her face shiny. Her eyes were vacant but they were her eyes. It was her. She was alive.
Her trembling right hand came up slowly. She touched his face and stroked it gently.
“Patton,” she said weakly and he burst into a fit of sobs. He leaned over her, cautious not to put his weight on her, but close enough to wrap his arms around her. His sobs continued.
“Shhh,” she said, stroking his face. “It’s all over,” she said again and he looked at her, dripping tears onto her face. She smiled and almost giggled as she wiped them away. “I’ve dreamt of this. I never gave up hope,” she croaked.
He leaned down and held her again. He felt the underside of her ribs and spine. She felt very thin.
“You’re alive!” he said, accidentally crushing her. She winced and he apologized.
“Yeah,” she said, stroking a lock of hair off of his forehead. “I wouldn’t let those bastards kill me even though they tried.”
Patton had enough of being in the dark, dusty shed. He picked her up and carried her to the front of the building where all of the other surviving prisoners were being staged. Patton could see a few shapes on the floor, their faces covered with white cotton sheets.
“I’m going to set you down in a chair, Honey,” he said to her softly. He set her down in a padded office chair. He grabbed her face in his and looked at her, still not believing it was her. Here. Alive.
Patton knelt down by his wife and tried to get her to drink as much water as possible. The first ambulance arrived just over a half hour later. A steady stream of civilian vehicles began crawling up the hill. Despite her protests, Patton helped load his wife into one of the ambulances and climbed into the back to make the ride with her to the hospital.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked her as an EMT started an IV in her left wrist.
She nodded and laid her head back on the pillow.
“We’re going to get you patched up,” Patton said, lovingly patting her right hand. “We’re going to get you home and make you all better.”
She nodded again and before she could respond, she fell asleep. Patton smiled and kissed her forehead. When he pulled away he noticed the tears that had fallen on her face. He wiped them away and then wiped them off of his own face.
He looked at her again and then looked up, through the roof of the ambulance and up into the heavens.
“Thank you God. Thank you.”
CHAPTER 35
It was an angry Michael Varner who faced the congressional committee in their hearing room. Patton, watching on C-SPAN, had never seen the man like this. He was aggressive and animated. He met the members’ questions with sneers, often scoffing and sighing audibly. He was there to call these people out for what he considered to be their dereliction of duty. Granted, his company had been commissioned to operate the experiment in Blue Creek, but he had no authority to enforce any laws.
“Why didn’t you contact the Senator in question when things began to turn bad?” asked one particularly smarmy Democrat member from Oregon.
“Again Congressman, I did. Many times. I have submitted my email inquiries and phone records. My question to you is what was he willing to do?”
The politician looked to his left and right, looking for help.
“I can’t speak for that particular senator, Sir,” he replied, trying to maintain his composure. “He was in the Senate. I’m in the House.”
“Well Congressman, you asked me the question. I’m just telling you what happened from my perspective and that’s nothing. Once the experiment started we were left to our own devices. I had agents inside the experiment to monitor what was going on and if things were getting dangerous. I contacted the Senator when a family was murdered during the first summer. I was encouraged the call local law enforcement but they claimed, rightfully, that they had no jurisdiction,” Varner said, his voice rising in anger as he spoke.
Patton turned off the TV at that point. He’d lived it. He didn’t want to relive it. He was just glad to see Michael Varner taking it to the people that nobody was blaming for the debacle in Blue Creek. Varner had also hit the lecture circuit and the cable news shows, trying to bring publicity to the fact that several people had been murdered by a government they themselves established. His other objective was to illustrate the damage that scientists can do if they’re left to their own devices and with more concern for data than for people.
“Why were they granted permission in the first place?” he’d been asked more than once.
“That’s a good question. How did they?” Varner answered rhetorically. “These people flash their degrees and get all these taxpayer grants, but when it comes time to be held accountable they either run for cover or hide behind the virtue of being a scientist.”
“But you had no problem in taking their money did you?” asked one particularly annoying liberal host, playing devil’s advocate.
“I did take their money after being assured everything was on the up and up. They also assured me that there were safeguards in place if things got out of hand. Unfortunately the federal government—the same entity that gave all the grants in the first place—dropped the ball when it came time to protect the people. They lied to me and they lied to the people of Blue Creek.”
Ironically it was the federal government that stepped in and helped the citizens of Blue Creek transition out of the experiment and back to regular citizenship in the United States. For a time, the community was treated like an Indian reservation. Eventually, the community was ceded back to Utah and Idaho, becoming just a regular border town. Thousands of experiment subjects left the area and returned home. Not only did they not have to pay a penalty, they were able to keep the money they were given to participate. Several other thousands stayed, though, and were joined other Americans from all over the country. Blue Creek had become famous—not just for what had taken place there, but because of its newness and its beauty. Eventually the town reached its previous population and even grew beyond that.
Patton’s tires skidded a little as he came to a stop at the curb. He looked up at the house and then back down the folded hands in his lap. This was something he’d both dreamed of and dreaded for a long time. Still, he felt like he owed it to him. He took a deep breath and pulled the door handle and swung the door open. His left foot landed in some slush left over from the last snowstorm. His right foot splashed in a small puddle. He walked around the back of the truck and saw something that enraged him. In the front yard was a large black sign, hung from two, sturdy looking wooden posts, standing maybe four feet high. The sign read “Home of Mike Wilson, Resistance Leader and Traitor”.