Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
He didn’t go up to the living areas. He went down even deeper, into the earth.
When things hit bottom and the doors were retracted by the monitoring folks, he stepped out into a bald white corridor hung with double mirror’d panels. As he plugged his cane into the floor and started forward, he noted the drains that were set every fifteen feet or so—and he imagined the stern-faced men on the other side of the glass, all of whom were training their gun muzzles on him like his ass had a target tattooed on it.
Clearly, the holes in the floor had been installed to make cleanup easier. In case things got bloody.
At the far end, he was cleared one more time, and then he finally got access into the lab. A vault-thick partition slid to the side, and there it was, the open area with all the workstations, the boardroom with its soundproof glass walls off to the left. No reception desk. If you needed someone to help you find your way, you didn’t belong here, and if you didn’t belong here, you wouldn’t have made it this far.
As he headed for the way back, most of the staff was gone, just a couple of researchers staying late, their backs hunched as they arched over microscopes or laptops. He didn’t mean to stop halfway along, but he did. There were five rows of eight workstations, so forty large steel tables were bolted into the concrete floor, the collection of lab stuff like microscopes, test tubes, and monitor screens varying—no doubt depending on what they were working on. A couple even had beakers on hot plates like in some eighties high school movie.
They had produced that Vita-12b here. The miracle drug that might, or might not, save thousands of lives.
And he was supposed to have been the first patient.
Squeezing the head of his cane, he recognized he was using it as a crutch—figuratively, that was. He’d been alarmed at how his energy had faded after the bike ride to Gus’s place, and he’d picked the thing up again on a just-in-case. Fortunately, he was feeling not as shitty now. As Gus had said he would. Immunotherapy was not a benign treatment when it came to side effects—for Daniel, at any rate. And though his cancer was now being allowed to progress at its own pace, the ancillary issues he’d had with the failed treatment were backing off—and it was like leaving a suck-ass destination, driving away.
Save for that collapse after what was for him a Herculean task with that bike on the highway, his strength was coming back, and he was being reminded of who he’d been. Mentally sharp. Physically strong(er). Healthy(er)…
Of course, the resurrection wasn’t going to last.
And that was why he’d come down here, wasn’t it.
Getting back with the walking, he pivoted on one foot and restarted for the patient rooms. Things were going well… until he came up to a closed door that he told himself he should not open.
Did he really want to ask a man in Gus’s kind of shape anything other than “How are you feeling, my guy?” or maybe “What can I get for you?”
So what the fuck was he doing, showing up on the doorstep, looking for—
The door swung open, and a white coat came out with a phlebotomy carrier of tubes filled with Gus’s blood. As the panel began to ease shut, Daniel got a full view of the patient. The man was sitting up in the hospital bed and glanced over.
Daniel lifted his hand in a wave. Like an idiot.
And then things were closed again.
A muffled “Hello?” permeated the divider. After which, more loudly: “So you’re just gonna wave and walk off?”
Cursing, Daniel entered the room. “Sorry.”
“S’all good.”
Over on the bed, the good doctor was staring out through bloodshot eyes, and seemed to be holding his head carefully on the top of his spine as if he were worried if he moved too fast, he was going to lose something. Like maybe his dinner. But his face was settling into a pattern of bruising that wasn’t getting worse, and the swelling did look a little better—
Gus frowned. “You okay?” When Daniel just blinked, the man said, “Listen, if you got bad news, drop the headline right now. I don’t have the energy to wait for the whole article.”
“No, no—it isn’t like that.” Daniel cleared his throat. “And hey, you’re sounding…”
“Good, right? I had a shower. I got fresh scrubs on. I’m ready to run a marathon.”
“Yeah, you do look… good.”
“You lie, but I’ll take it.”
There was a pause, and Daniel glanced around. “Can I get you anything—”
“What’s on your mind, big guy?” When Daniel hesitated, Gus slashed an impatient hand through the air—then winced, like his shoulder had hurt in response to the movement. “You think I can’t read you? Come on, after everything we’ve been through.”