He tried to speak, but he wasn’t sure he had control of his vocal cords. It didn’t matter, anyway, as he realized he couldn’t even open his mouth.
A small hand pulled his chin down, forcing his mouth open, and he felt — sort of — a pill being inserted into it.
“It won’t matter — I’ve already reported that we’ve achieved success.”
“Yes, I know, I read the report,” the first voice — a man’s — said. “Still, they won’t want to see him awake. They’ll need him under for the final round of testing, so there’s no reason to let him become too aware.”
Malcolm tried to piece things together. He was paralyzed. Waking from a coma, anyway.
“How’d he wake up?” the second voice asked. It was a woman, probably the one who’d forced his mouth open.
“It’s a standard reaction to the chemical; almost like developing an immunity. Most subjects awaken after four to six months. He made it to five and a half.”
“Can we up the dosage?”
“No, a higher dosage will likely kill him. Keep the mg count steady; just track it closer. Any increase in heart rate or changes in sleep cycles, have someone come in and check it out.”
“Got it.”
Malcolm heard them finish up, then leave the room. He was left to his own thoughts and the slow, methodical beeping noise.
He suddenly felt the pricking of thousands of nerve endings flaring up in his neck and head, as if needles just below the surface of his skin were trying to poke their way out. It was painful, but it meant something else.
He could move his head.
It was the same feeling he’d had when a body part fell asleep. He could feel the line of nerves crawling up and around his face. Slowly, painfully, he tried to move the outer muscles in his face — cheeks, lips, ears. He thought he could feel the slightest of motions.
His face continued to “wake up.” He’d have preferred the traditional feeling of being awake, rather than the feeling of millions of ants crawling over his head, but he didn’t argue. He moved his mouth.
Using an unbelievable amount of energy, he tried lifting his head. Yes! It was moving. His head was lifting up from the bed, slowly, surely…
It fell. He could hold it no longer. His head fell backwards onto the pillow that had been placed below him.
With a deep, exhaling breath, he recovered and tried again. A little farther this time.
He could now see his body. It was covered in a sheet, and his feet poked out from the bottom of it. Behind that was the door to the room he was in. It too was white, the off-white color no doubt picked for its price and not is appeal.
Again, his head fell back to the pillow.
This is good, he told himself. I’m getting stronger each time.
As Malcolm tried for the third time, however, he realized something. They’d injected him with something. Possibly multiple things.
He was probably only minutes away from passing out into a coma once again.
I need to get out of here.
He lay back for a few extra seconds, summoning energy, then he tried once more to lift his head.
He wanted to scream. Pain shot through his head, worse than any migraine he’d ever experienced. Don’t. Stop. He chanted to himself over and over again. Don’t. Stop.
His head was now fully upright, perpendicular to his body and the flat bed on which he rested. Now what? He forced his neck to each side, glancing down at the maze of tubes that were inserted into different parts of his body. He had no idea what they did or what human bodily function they were intended to perform. Some seemed empty — maybe those were waste tubes?
Others had clear liquids running through them, and a few had deep crimson liquid coursing through them.
He didn’t have much choice. He could still only move his head, and he didn’t have the luxury to wait around for more of his body to wake up. He looked down and to his right, noticing a small clear tube that had been inserted into the soft skin underneath his upper arm, just below his shoulder.
If I can reach that…
He struggled again, forcing his head forward and down. A little more…
His lips were on the tube now, but there was no way his teeth were going to reach that far. He needed a little more. Millimeters more.
Come on, Malcolm. He willed himself to push forward again. The pain was unbearable, his face no doubt bright red.
Just a few millimeters more. It had to be.
Don’t. Stop.
He exhaled the last of the air that was in his lungs, and his face shot forward just enough. He could feel the cold steel of the IV line’s end hit his mouth, and he clamped down. He didn’t care what he yanked out, as long as he disconnected something.
Yes!
He bit down as hard as he could with his teeth as his head forced itself back down and onto the pillow. He felt a dull throb in his shoulder, but he didn’t move. He waited a moment, letting his body regroup. Finally, he lifted his tongue up and felt for his prize.
It was there, cold steel and clear plastic tubing. It bumped up against his mouth as it fell, and he was ecstatic.
He’d done it.
He could see the plastic tube out of the corner of his eye, disappearing off the side of the bed and around the room somewhere, its contents no longer able to enter Malcolm’s body.
He smiled — or what he thought was a smile — and closed his eyes again.
Only a matter of time…
He waited for the drug’s effects to wear off; waited for the prickling line of needles to expand their reach, overtaking his body with the beautiful gift of motion. Any moment now, and he’d be able to move again.
What was that?
He felt something, or rather, understood something. It wasn’t a feeling as much as a sort of knowing. His body was crashing, falling again. He felt the line of needles receding, going back down into the surface of his body.
No!
Just a little more time.
But it was not to be. Malcolm’s body was going to sleep again. He could do nothing but watch, helpless, as his eyes closed out the world around him. He could hear his breathing, feel the rising and falling of his chest, but it was odd, as if it were not his own body that was controlling it.
To be sure, he tried lifting his head again. Nothing.
He couldn’t cry out, couldn’t make a sound. His mind was shutting down, sending him to sleep once again, and he couldn’t think…
Chapter Twenty-One
“Any results yet?” Dr. Torres was beginning to get frustrated as she waited for her assistant, Charlie, to return to her table with the results of the latest tests they’d been putting the sample through.
“Not yet,” Charlie muttered under his breath. They’d put the sample through a battering ram of tests — the standard lab-required composition, attributes, and plausible generation tests, as well as a few others Dr. Torres ordered hours ago. Charlie was currently finishing with the last of these, a test to determine any possible effects external forces might have on the sample.
Charlie returned to the table carrying a petri dish with a swab of the sample inside. Moving the sample from an observation plate to the dish made prescribing tests much easier.
“I don’t understand why you won’t just send an email to Levels 4 through 8,” Charlie said as he set the dish down on the table in front of Dr. Torres. “What can possibly go wrong by getting more people involved?”