Tabula Rasa Kristen Lippert Martin (5 page)

Improvising seems familiar. Like it’s my style.
I notice an interior door in the corner of the garage.
There’s probably a hallway on the other side. It might lead
 toward a basement, but I can’t chance it. Since this place
 is built into the side of a hill, I can’t be sure what level the
 garage connects to, and I don’t want to end up anywhere
 near the lobby. Run? Don’t run? I do nothing. I can’t do
 nothing. I hear footsteps on the other side of the door.
Heavy and urgent. These guys are fast.
I can hear them shouting to each other in their weird,
 digitized voices. I run to the other side of the garage where
 the big lawn mowers are parked and squat down behind
 one of them.
I hear the chirp of a magnetized card reader and see the
 light near the door turn from red to green. The door opens
 an inch.
I wait. They wait. They’re testing me.
“Sarah Ramos. Walk to the center of the room and
 lie face down on the floor with your arms and legs fully
 extended.”
I say nothing. Still the door doesn’t open. What are they
 waiting for?
I jump up from behind the mower and pull the engine
 cord. It springs to life, coughing black smoke and shak-
 ing the room. I squeeze one handle, but nothing happens.
Then I try both at the same time and the lawn mower
 jumps forward, but as soon as I let go of both handles, it
 stalls.
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Behind me on a workbench is a roll of duct tape. I tear
 a piece off with my teeth and wrap it around each handle
 of the mower.
Just as the door springs open, I pop the brake and the
 mower takes off toward the door. I don’t care how many
 guns you have—when a huge lawn mower is coming at
 you, you get out of the way. They reflexively shoot and
 then retreat back to the hallway as it smashes into the door.
The screeching of metal echoes through the garage.
I hit the button to lower the garage door, waiting until
 it’s almost all the way down before slipping out underneath
 it.
I’m alive. But I need to keep moving if I want to stay
 that way.
Keeping close to the building, I hope the outcroppings
 and contours will provide me some cover. After a hundred
 feet or so, I come to the edge of my known world: a huge
 metal trellis mounted to the side of the building. It runs
 almost all the way to the roof and has thousands of pieces of
 copper foil attached to the lattice. When the wind blows,
 the foil strips spin around, making patterns in the shift-
 ing breezes. Pretty, yes, but it’s also capturing the wind’s
 energy to help supply power to the building. Somebody
 once told me it’s called “functional sculpture.”
As I try to decide what my next move should be, I see a
figure ahead of me in the snow. It isn’t one of the guys with
 guns. It isn’t someone on staff. Another patient? It can’t be.
For one thing, he isn’t bald. I can see dark hair sticking out
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from underneath his ski hat. Also, he’s wearing a big white
 puffy ski jacket and goggles, and carrying what looks like
 a computer bag. As he skulks along, I skulk behind him.
Something in the way he moves tells me he’s young. I fol-
 low as he picks his way around the edge of the building.
In his left hand, he’s carrying a walkie-talkie, and when
 he disappears around the next corner, I run faster to gain
 ground.
I chance a look around the corner and stop in my tracks.
There’s a work site. It’s huge. The hole they’ve dug for
 this construction project runs as deep as the main hospital
 building is tall. Excavated dirt is piled in every direction.
There are dump trucks, cement mixers, backhoes, and,
 looming above it all, a tower crane. I see the trunk of it,
 but the top has disappeared into the veil of snow. Obvi-
 ously, they wouldn’t be working in this weather, but there’s
 something about the site that’s not quite right. Maybe it’s
 the tall weeds around the tires of the cement mixer, the
 sheets of plastic that have torn loose and blown into the
 fence, the way the piles of dirt have hardened. No one’s
 been here for a while.
The kid is making his way toward the small outbuilding
 that’s connected to the main facility by a glass walkway.
He’s crouched low, definitely trying to stay hidden. It
 makes me feel better about him. Plus, he doesn’t have a
 gun. Right now, my favorite people on earth are those
 without guns.
When the kid gets to the building, he squats down near
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the door at the side and pulls out a passcard. It’s just like
 mine: white. He seems unsure about whether he wants to
 use it. He waits, then finally scans the card and opens the
 door.  
That’s when I make my move. I sprint for the opening
 like I’m trying to steal home, catching the door with my
 boot just before it closes all the way. I wait a minute before
 looking inside, just in case the guy is still there. He isn’t.
I’ve clearly come in a back door or a side door. It’s kind
 of odd, the way this place is separate from the main build-
 ing, but I’m sure there must be a reason. There always is.
The stairs go one direction: down. I move as quietly as
I can. This might be a good place to lie low for a while. I
 come to a set of doors, each with a magnetized card reader
 next to it.  Judging by the unmelted snow on the floor, the
 kid went to the right. Guess I’ll go left.
I use my passcard and pull the door open. The air’s so
 cold I wonder if I’ve walked back outside. As I enter the
 room, the lights come on. I take two steps back, and the
 security camera in the upper corner of the room adjusts
 itself to capture my movement.  
No! No! No!
Turning back, I hear a strange sound, like something
 deflating. Someone has just turned off the lights, along with
 every machine in the place—all that white noise you don’t
 notice until it’s gone. A moment later, a series of greenish
 emergency lights come on.
I hear the beep of the card reader. Someone is coming.
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I press myself against the wall. It must be the kid I saw
 outside. Maybe he saw my snow tracks in the hall. I need
 to think fast.
The door swings open all the way, letting in just enough
 light so I can aim.  
Apparently I know how to throw a pretty good punch.
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CHAPTER 6
 he kid flies backward. His head hits the wall hard, but
Tthe thud is muffled by his ski hat. He slides down into
 a sitting position as his computer bag spills onto the floor
 next to him.
He looks up at me, amazed and slightly offended, and
 then touches his bleeding nose.  “What did you do that
 for?”  
My head tips to the side; my lips part. I look at my fist
 because I’m pretty sure it’s never punched such a good-
 looking face before. I can’t dwell on this fact for very long,
 though, because for all I know, this boy could be helping
 those killers hunt me down.  
I put my boot on his ankle and press down with all my
 weight.
“Hey! That hurts!”
“It’s supposed to,” I say. “Did you turn the lights out?”
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“Who are you?”
I growl at him. “All you need to know right now is that
I’m the girl with the gun.”
“That is not a gun.”
“A projectile is a projectile.”
“You got me there.”
I step back and he leans forward to rub his ankle. Then
 he starts to get up and actually holds out his hand for me to
 pull him to his feet.
“I didn’t say you could get up.”  
“Just let me do what I was gonna do, all right?”
“Which is what?”
“Can’t tell you that, but if I don’t do it quick, a bunch
 of angry dudes with real guns are going to come rushing
 in here.”
I look around the room. The green glow of the emer-
 gency lights has leached into the air like weak tea, but it
 reveals nothing familiar. At least not to my eyes.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“It’s where they house the mainframe for this joint.”
He points toward the other side of the room. Now I
 can see the outline of a series of small, rectangular towers.
They’re elevated off the floor behind a metal cage.
“Why would they have the computer so far from the
 main building?”
“This system needs to be kept super cool all the time,
 which is why this room is like a meat locker. And it needs
 to be kept safe. So it’s in a bunker with four-foot-thick
 walls. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”
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“Not really.”
“Please. I’m running out of time. What do you want?
You want me to beg?” He gets on his knees. “Here. I’m
 begging. Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.”
He reaches for his pocket suddenly, and I point the
 nailer at his face.
“It’s a headlamp, okay? As in, a lamp I wear on my
 head.”
“Let me see it,” I say, trying to sound menacing.
He takes the headlamp out, puts it on his head, and
 turns on the light. Then he throws his hands out to the
 sides. Ta-da.
“See? Just like I said. Head. Lamp.”
I lower the nailer and kick his computer bag behind me.
“I’ll hold on to this for insurance.”
“No, I need that for what I’m going to do.”
I wait a moment. He makes a motion with his hand,
 like gimme, and I push the bag toward him with my foot.
He grabs it and crosses the room in three strides. He takes
 a pair of glasses with thick brown frames from his coat
 pocket and puts them on. The glasses easily cut his attrac-
 tiveness by half. Possibly three quarters.
“Why would you . . . what are you putting those on
 for?”
“Because you knocked my contacts out when you
 punched me in the face, and now I can’t see.”
I gape at his glasses, wondering if this is what people
 wear these days in the outside world. I feel my forehead
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crinkling in dismay at the pure, incandescent ugliness of
 them.
“Look, I got them in Pyongyang, okay? This was the
 only set of frames they had, and we were kind of in a hurry.
Now stop distracting me.”
At the door of the security cage, he punches in a code.
Nothing happens. He tries again.
“Well, this is embarrassing. Thought I had that code
 cracked.”  
Scanning the room, he zeroes in on one particular
 server. He pulls a tool from his bag and uses it to cut away
 part of the cage so he can reach through. Then he pulls
 out his laptop, connects a cable, and starts typing madly. A
 moment later, he looks relieved and quickly tucks some-
 thing into his pocket.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“Took some stuff. Then I killed it.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what my boss told me to do.”
“Your boss?” Now I’m good and mad. I point the nailer
 at his throat. “I thought you said you were trying to get
 away from those guys—”
I want to add who are trying to kill me but don’t. Even I
 realize how crazy it would probably sound.
“My boss isn’t with those guys,” the boy says. “Well,
 actually, he is, but not in the way you think. It’s compli-
 cated.”
The boy takes his glasses off and puts them back in his
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inner coat pocket. Then he crouches down, packs away his
 laptop, and zips the bag shut. He looks up at me like he’s
 not sure why I’m still here. His eyes are so brown they look
 black, or maybe it’s just that his pupils are fully dilated in
 this dim light.
He starts for the door.
“Wait. What are you going to do now?” I ask.
“Leave.”
“Leave?”
“Yeah. I’m getting my butt back to the yurt.”
“What did you just say?”
“Yurt.”
“What is that word?”
“Yurt. You know? It’s like a tent. Or a hut.”
“Take me with you.”
“No.”
“Please!” I want to spit that word out of my mouth; it
 tastes so much like desperation.
“No.”
I try a different tack. “Look, I take rejection fairly well.
My nailer? Not so much.”  
He looks toward the door again and then glances at his
 watch. “You don’t seem to understand. . . .”
“No, I don’t understand. I don’t understand what’s going
 on at all. There are guys here with guns who just killed
 everyone I know!”
He winces. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? Did you just say you’re sorry?”
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“I meant I’m sorry for you. Not that I’m apologizing
 for what’s going on in there, because I had nothing to do
 with it. I’ve got my own problems, and I need to get out
 of here.”
“You’re complaining to me.” I pull off my cap.
He stares at my bald head a moment and then looks me
 in the eye like I’m . . . like he knows I’m a lost cause, but
 can’t quite bring himself to break the news to me.
“So you’re one of them.”
“One of who?”
“One of the lab rats here.”
“Obviously.”
He starts to speak, stops, then starts again. “I’m prob-
 ably the last person who could help you. Believe me when
I tell you that those guys inside are going to be very cranky
 when they realize what I just did. I wouldn’t be doing you
 any favors if I let you come with me.”
He’s putting his gloves on now. I guess he assumes I’m
 going to just let him walk out the door.
“Tell me something,” I say, trying to keep the anger out
 of my voice.  
“Can’t.”
“Anything! I need something useful, now, or I will nail
 your feet to the floor!” So much for containing my anger.
“I doubt you even know how that thing works.”  
I point the nailer at his computer bag. This gets his
 attention.
“Take it easy, okay? Just take it easy.”
“Tell me one thing. That’s all.”
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“Okay. One thing.”
“How are you involved, but not involved?”
“My boss is the preeminent hacker in the entire world.
He does jobs for people. People with a lot of money. He got
 paid to come here and remove some information.”
“And shoot everyone in sight?”
“We didn’t know they were going to do that. I swear.
Why do you think I’m getting out of here?”
“I don’t believe you. Why would somebody need help
 hacking a hospital computer?”
“Hospital? Is that where you think you are?”
I almost blurt out yes, but I know now that this answer
 is laughable.  
“This ain’t no hospital, sunshine,” he says. “Or maybe I
 should say, it’s a lot more than a hospital. This place is seri-
 ously state-of-the-art.”
“Why?”
“You know what? No offense, but there’s not much
 point in explaining this to someone who’s brain-damaged.”
“I am not brain-damaged.”
“You are, and you’ve got the drill holes to prove it.”
I shoot his computer with my nailer.
He starts howling, jumping, swearing, asking me if
I realize what I’ve just done. I stare at him, unmoved.
Nobody calls me brain-damaged. Even if, technically, I
 am.
Suddenly a voice comes over his radio. A woman’s
 voice. “Who’s there? Is there someone on the other end?
Answer me.”
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