Contaminated 2: Mercy Mode (20 page)

“Hi. Velvet, right?” His voice is soft.

I croak an answer.

“Thirsty?”

I nod.

The man pours a cup of water from a pitcher next to the bed, and sticks a straw in it. He offers it to me, and I drink greedily. It hits my tongue and the back of my throat, the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. I want more, but it’s all gone.

“Let that settle first.” He checks everything, including the wrist and ankle cuffs. He doesn’t make them looser, but snugs them tight. Then he checks the bag of fluid and the needle in the back of my hand.

“Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital. You were involved in an accident. A fire. You sustained damage to your lungs, but you’re going to be just fine.”

I remember the fire. I remember running from the house and the drive in Dillon’s truck. The soldiers.

“Opal. Where’s my sister?”

“She’s fine. Try to relax.” He pats my arm and does something to the bag of fluid.

In seconds, warmth floods me. I start to feel sleepy. I blink away the tiredness.

“What about my mom? Dillon? Mrs. Holly?”

The man swings toward me, brown eyes wide. He checks the bag again, adjusting some dial. More warmth fills me, but again I shake off the weariness. I have to know what happened to my family.

“They’re all fine. You should rest now. You have to be tired.”

“I’m not. I want to know where they are, and why am I locked up like this?” I tug at the wrist restraints, which rattle against the metal rails.

The man backs up a step. “They’re for your safety.”

I think I understand. They’re not for my safety, but for his and for whoever else comes in here to take care of me. I yank again.

“Why am I locked up? Is it because I’m Contaminated?”

He starts to burble something that’s supposed to sound vague and medical and threatening.

“Am I Contaminated?” I scream it. I yank so hard on my left wrist that the leather buckle gives. Not enough to let me free, but enough to make it noticeably looser.

Without giving me an answer, the man flees. The door locks behind him. I see him look for a few seconds through the window to the hallway, his eyes still wide and scared.

I fall back on the bed, breathing hard. My wrist hurts. My ankle hurts; I remember twisting it. My lungs and throat hurt, too, but that’s from whatever gas they dosed me with, I’m sure of it.

The clear fluid drips into me in a steady stream. I count the passing of time by the number of drops. I’m so bored, I want to scream; so thirsty, it’s like I’ve been swallowing sand. My stomach starts to rumble, too.

Worst of all, I have to pee.

I count the hours by how long it takes the bag of fluid to empty, and by how hard it is to stop myself from wetting the bed. I work at the restraints on my wrists, tugging and releasing over and over until finally they’re loose enough for me to slip one hand free. The skin on my wrist is raw and bleeding, but the pain is somehow distant.

I take the needle from the port in the back of my hand and unbuckle my other wrist. Then my ankles. I have to pee so bad, I can barely move, and I crouch with my hands pressing my belly as I go into the bathroom. I use the toilet and shake with relief.

There’s a woman standing in the room when I come out of the bathroom. She’s dressed in a neat black skirt and white shirt, and her blond hair’s tucked into a tight French twist. She wears a pair of black patent-leather stiletto pumps with red soles that look totally impractical.

“Hi,” I say warily, pausing in the doorway. I rest my weight on one foot to keep the pressure off my sore ankle.

She turns so fast, I know I’ve scared her, but she puts on a fast face of welcome. “Velvet. Hello. I’m Dr. Donna D’Angelo. You can call me Dr. Donna.”

I’m not calling her anything but creepy, that’s what I think. I nod stiffly, not moving, though I want to get back into bed, even if I don’t want to be locked up again. The room’s spinning a little. I can’t tell if my stomach’s sick, or if I’m so hungry that I’m nauseated.

Dr. Donna must realize she’s between me and the bed,
because she steps out of the way with a grand gesture. “Please. Don’t let me stop you. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

I’m not, really. Aching all over and my head’s swimming, but I’m not tired. I stay where I am, trying not to make it obvious that I’m scouting the room for anything I can use as a weapon to get out of here.

“Where am I?”

“Arnaldo told me you’d woken.”

“Arnaldo’s the guy who came in before? With the scrubs?”

She nods eagerly. “Yes. Arnaldo’s one of our best nurses here. He’ll take great care of you.”

“He said I’m in the hospital because of the fire.”

“Yes. You’re so fortunate that you were all found so soon.” Dr. Donna’s red lipstick is so expertly applied, I wonder how she can move her mouth without smearing it. But there’s a little on her front teeth when she smiles, and that makes me feel better.

“Uh-huh.” I lean in the doorway, wishing for my clothes. This gown is open in the back, and I’m not wearing anything under it.

“He said you were a little … agitated.”

My brows go up. “You think?”

“I think,” she says carefully, “that you must be confused and concerned about what’s going on. Anyone would be, in your situation. So why don’t you get back into bed, Velvet, and I’ll explain everything to you. Okay?”

Her bright smile and the way she tilts her head make me think that Dr. Donna is used to getting her own way. If not by acquiescence, then acquisition, my dad would’ve said. It’s a quote from one of his video games. A blur of motion outside the window gives me a glimpse of what looks like a military uniform.

“If I don’t get into bed, will those soldiers out there make me?”

Her smile is wide and probably meant to be calming, but it makes me think of a shark. “Get back into bed, Velvet. I’ll have something brought in for you to eat and drink. How’s that?”

She might think she’s bribing me, but I know a threat when I see it in her eyes. I sidle past her, half expecting her to grab me as I pass, but I make it to the bed okay. I slide under the covers.

“Are you going to lock me up again?”

“Should I?” Dr. Donna gives me a strangely fond but stern look.

“I don’t want you to.”

“And it seems you’re able to get out of the restraints, anyway. Despite being pumped enough sedative to put down an elephant.” With another of those ugly, strange grins, Dr. Donna crosses to the empty fluid bag. She pokes it with a red fingernail. She looks at me. “You’re a very special girl, Velvet. Do you know that?”

I don’t answer her.

Dr. Donna claps her hands together. “It’s going to be such a pleasure getting to know you. I feel it. Now you be a good girl and stay in bed. I’ll order you something to eat and drink. Bland foods at first, I’m afraid. You’ve been out for a while; we don’t want to shock your system.”

“Wait … what? Out?” I sit up. “How long?”

Dr. Donna waves dismissively. “Stay in bed. I’ll send someone with food for you.”

“How long?” I call after her, but she’s out the door without answering me.

Of course I get out of bed. Of course there are soldiers posted outside the door. They have guns. I get back into bed.

Arnaldo brings me pudding and oatmeal and milk and offers to feed it to me.

“You’re kidding.”

“No,” he says with a smile I don’t want to return. “But believe me, I have other things I’d rather be doing. Some toilets need scrubbing down the hall, that’s way more fun.”

I give him a grudging half smile, but feed myself. He takes away the dishes and leaves me in bed without restraining me, but there’s nothing to do in here. No television. No books, not even a Bible or something in the drawer.

There’s no window to the outside world.

There used to be one. The outline’s still there. But now it’s bricked up. What sort of hospital room has no window? The Sanitarium, that’s what kind. I’ve never been in the
hospital before as a patient, but I’ve visited a few people, and there’s never been a room without a window. There are curtains here, which create an illusion, but behind them is only a plain concrete wall and the square of bricks that have replaced the glass.

Limping, I pace the room. There’s a bed. A small dresser of flimsy wood, all the drawers empty. A nightstand, its single drawer also empty. Everything smells new, like paint.

In the bathroom, I look at my reflection for the first time. No wonder my head hurts. Both my eyes are black and blue, like I got double punched in the face. I turn side to side, studying the pattern of bruising. I touch it gently and look closer to find the two tiny pinpricks of blood where they must’ve put the needles in to take samples of my brains.

There’s no soap or shampoo in the bathroom, but the water is hot and I shower forever, waiting for it to get cold, but it never does. I lie on the tiles and let it rain down all over me, easing away the aches and pains until it hurts more to be on the hard floor than it feels good to be in the hot water.

Finally, I crawl into bed with my hair soaking and the hospital gown clinging to me. I remember my mom’s friend telling her once about her hospital stay, how it was impossible to sleep because the nurses came in every hour or so to check on her, but nobody comes in. If they stare at me through the window in the door, I don’t know it. I don’t
want to know it. I pull the blankets over me and sleep, though my dreams are restless.

When I wake up, Dr. Donna’s sitting in the chair next to the bed. How long has she been watching me? I’m totally creeped out. I sit, rubbing my eyes and wincing when I forget to be gentle.

“Oh, good. You’re awake. You know, you remind me so much of my daughter. She was your age.”

“Was?”

Dr. Donna’s smile falters for a second, and she doesn’t answer me. She stares, though, her eyes glittering. Then she seems to shake herself out of it. “We need to do a few tests on you—”

“No.”

Dr. Donna’s next smile is not at all friendly. “Velvet, don’t be like that. It’s just a few simple—”

“I said no.” I sit up higher in the bed, pushing my tangled hair off my face.

“You don’t have a choice.” Her smile disappears. I like her better when she’s not pretending to be my friend. “You can be a good girl or a bad girl. Up to you. But it will be easier for you if you’re good.”

“It will be easier for you, that’s what you mean.”

Something flickers in her expression, and she stands. “Fine. We’ll see how you feel in a few hours when you’re hungry.”

She doesn’t come back for a whole day.

ARNALDO HASN’T COME BACK. INSTEAD, A
short, burly guy with a shaved head brings me a tray of what looks like vegetarian noodle soup, crusty white bread with margarine, a side of thick-sliced fries and ketchup. Dr. Donna comes in after him.

“Thanks, Cody, but you can go.”

Cody gives me a long, hard stare. “You sure? I can stick around in case she gives you any trouble.”

“She’s not going to give me any trouble. Are you?” Dr. Donna’s smile stretches wide across her face and doesn’t reach her eyes.

My mouth waters and my stomach clenches with hunger, but I stare her down. I don’t make a move for the food, even though she puts it within reach. Cody leaves, but not before giving me another glare.

“It’s just a few small tests, Velvet. Then you can eat.”

I have no intentions of doing anything this woman
wants, but I put on an innocent face and give the food a longing glance. “What kind of tests?”

“Just a few motor skills tests. That sort of thing.”

“What does that have to do with being in a fire?” I hold out my hands, palm up, then down. “I mean, I’m not even burned or anything.”

Dr. Donna’s eyes narrow. “You were very lucky.”

“Where’s the rest of my family?” I can’t disguise the
boing-going
of my stomach at the smell of the soup.

“They’re fine. Dillon and your sister and the older woman—”

“Mrs. Holly.”

“All of them have been placed in displacement housing.”

“What’s that?” I think of the apartment Opal and I were given as Conorphans. At least then we’d been able to take some of our stuff from our house. And we’d known our house was there for us to go back to someday. I think of our house, burned to the ground, everything we ever knew or owned … gone.

“Housing for people who’ve been displaced,” she says. “Eat up.”

Well, duh. I don’t make so much as a twitch of my fingers toward the food. “Are they together?”

“Your sister has been placed in the guardianship of your … husband. Yes.”

Relief floods me that at least Opal isn’t alone. “And my mom?”

“She’s being treated for her injuries as well. I’m sure you’re aware of your mother’s special condition, and how it would require additional treatment.”

Thick spit pools in my mouth. I was starving, but now I’m not sure I could eat if she pried open my mouth and poured it full of soup. “What kind of additional treatment?”

Dr. Donna smiles. “Let’s get you started on those tests, shall we? And then you can eat.”

It might not have occurred to her that the soup will be cold by the time I’m finished with any sort of tests. That tells me a lot about her, that she’s so sure of getting what she wants that she doesn’t think all the way ahead. And mostly that she thinks I’m stupid, in the way that lots of adults seem to think kids don’t have a clue about what’s going on. I blink at her slowly.

“What kind of tests did you say they were again?”

“Oh … let’s see. We’d like to test your motor skills, for one thing. And some others.”

I put a hand to my stomach, not having to fake a groan. “I’m sure I’d do much better on the tests with a full stomach. I’m so hungry, I feel faint. I’m sure I couldn’t do a good job.”

Dr. Donna tilts her head to study me, but I keep my expression as innocent as possible. “Fine. Eat first. You do need your strength. And I’m a fair person.”

She might be, but I’m not. I eat the food slowly, savoring it, not gulping even though I’m hungry enough to gobble.
I sop up the last of the broth with the bread and wipe the corners of my mouth with the paper napkin on the tray. Dr. Donna watches me impatiently the whole time, and when I’m finished, she stands.