Phoenix Island, page 15
Parker’s muscles twitched. His knuckles were white on the handle of the machete. “Yes, Commander.”
“Unless, of course, you wish to challenge Mr. Freeman to an official duel.”
Parker’s face underwent an amazing transformation, in a split second going from a mask of frustration to one of wide-smiling excitement. “Yes, Commander!”
No, she thought, not a duel . . . Carl couldn’t even stand up; how could he fight?
“Of course . . .” Stark said, a sly smile coming onto his face now, “I would give your opponent time to recover.” With this comment, she saw an understanding pass between the men. The drill sergeant’s smile fell away, and she had to fight to keep one from appearing on her face. “And, observing the rules of dueling, if Mr. Freeman were to accept your challenge, as I assume he would, the terms of said duel would be of his choosing. He could, for example, choose weaponless combat.” He paused, his smile growing.
Parker said nothing.
“Well, Drill Sergeant? Do you issue an official challenge?”
Parker said something she couldn’t hear.
Stark’s smile disappeared. “Sound off, Parker. I want everyone to hear your answer. Do you or do you not challenge Carl Freeman to single combat to commence upon his full recuperation and under provisions selected by him?”
“No, Commander,” Parker said.
“I see. One more of Caesar’s many deaths.”
Half a dozen soldiers appeared behind Commander Stark, four men and two women, all looking around twenty years old, incredibly fit, and intensely dangerous. Each dressed like the commander, with one exception: instead of a tank top, each wore a black T-shirt emblazoned with a red phoenix.
“Help that soldier to his feet,” Stark said. “Pay him the respect he deserves.”
The soldiers who’d kicked Carl moved away, and these new soldiers lifted Carl to his feet. Carl managed an exhausted smile, and Octavia’s heart cheered. Maybe everything was going to be all right after all. Maybe this was the end of something. A new beginning. Her legs felt rubbery as her adrenaline faded away.
Stark unclipped a canteen from his belt. “You must all remember this day forever. Remember the manner in which this soldier faced his own death. Resolute acceptance, orphans . . . resolute acceptance of his own demise.” He raised the canteen overhead and gestured with the other hand toward Carl. “Behold Carl Freeman! A true warrior! I call him brother and ask that he drink from my own water.” He extended his canteen in Carl’s direction.
Carl shook himself free of the hands holding him, staggered to accept the canteen, and drank greedily.
“Hooah!” Stark bellowed.
The platoon’s thunderous response puzzled Octavia—only minutes ago, they’d clamored for Carl’s blood—but she didn’t care. She wanted very badly to join their cheer but could not. Tears overcame her. It was over. The nightmare was finally over. . . .
CARL OPENED HIS EYES to see fan blades whirling overhead. He lay in a comfortable bed with low metal rails on each side. Next to the bed stood a metal pole, from which hung a bag of clear liquid. The liquid dripped slowly into a skinny tube that snaked from the bottom of the bag into an IV inserted in his arm.
A hospital room.
Smelling swampy decay, he tensed.
The Chop Shop . . .
He pictured the kid he’d seen while sitting on the cattle truck, the kid raising his hand, his mouth hanging open, and remembered Eric’s journal: We saw them standing at the fence, guys we knew, guys who went to the Chop Shop and never came back. They just stared, moaning like zombies. . . .
Carl shuddered.
But he felt fine. Better than fine. He felt good. It didn’t seem possible.
He remembered Parker raising the machete in the air, sunlight flashing off the blade, and then the voice, deep and familiar, telling Parker to stop. . . .
The voice belonged to his shadow visitor, Captain Midnight.
Commander Stark.
He’d stopped Parker and saved Carl’s life.
After the nightmarish ordeal in the sweatbox, his survival felt like nothing short of a miracle. He said a prayer of thanks and studied the room around him.
It was small and neat, with pale blue walls the color of a robin’s egg and a single window, through which Carl could see bright daylight.
Despite the bars on the window. . . .
That’s it, Carl thought. I’m out of here. He’d had enough of cell bars. He needed to get out of here and find a way off this horrible island.
He tried to sit up, but broad canvas straps bound him to the bed. Restraints clutched his chest, arms, hips, legs, and ankles. He strained against them, but it was pointless. There was no escape.
A door opened.
“Already awake?”
Carl turned his head and saw the bearded man he’d seen from the cattle truck the first day, the doctor, the man with eyes of fire.
Without light flashing upon the glasses, the thick lenses made the doctor’s eyes look big and round and eager. A smile parted the beard, the teeth very white against the glossy black whiskers. “You supposed to sleep thirty minutes more . . . so soon.” His accent was heavy. Maybe Mexican, maybe South American. Carl didn’t know.
He crossed the room and leaned over Carl.
Carl pressed back into his pillow as the doctor held his index finger in front of Carl’s face. “How many fingers you see?”
“One.”
“Now?”
“Three.”
“Is good. Tres. Sí. Is strong boy. Many boys come to me, never I see one so strong as this boy. As you. What I think I like most . . .” The doctor extended his index finger again and lowered it toward Carl’s face.
“Hey,” Carl said, “What are you doing?” He tried to make his voice strong, but it was raspy, the voice of an old man. “Don’t touch me.”
The nut was going to poke him in the eye.
Carl closed his eye just as the fingertip pressed softly into its inside corner. He could hear the doctor breathing through his nose, could smell garlic on the man’s breath. Then the doctor said, “What I think I like most is to see how you do with the cheep.”
“Get off,” Carl said and turned his head side to side. He was trapped. The more he fought, the more the restraints seem to tighten, crushing him in his own fear.
The doctor chuckled and withdrew his finger. “So much fire this boy has. So, so much. So machismo. Could he be the one?”
“You let me go, or I’ll break your nose.”
The doctor laughed. “I like this very much. You American boys . . . sometimes, I think it is only you who are like this. You all tied up, but still you say these things to me.”
Carl gave him his hardest stare. “I’ll do it. I swear. You don’t let me up, I’ll break your nose. I don’t know when, but I will.”
The doctor stroked his beard. “A boy from my country, he tied up like you, is gentle like a little baby. He look around, say to himself, this is bad. And he is right.” He tapped his head. “He believe in his mind the bad thing, it can happen to him.”
“You don’t let me up, you know what’s going to happen to you.”
The doctor’s smile fell away, and Carl didn’t like the way bearded face changed, the man looking angry, thoughtful, and amused, all at once, like Carl was a fly and he was thinking about plucking his wings.
The doctor said, “Perhaps maybe you will be the one. Perhaps maybe you will not. We will see. But he makes me wait.” He crossed the room with his hands folded behind his back. He paused beneath the window, face upturned, and once again his lenses gleamed, looking this time not so much likes circles of flame but more like the headlights of an oncoming car. “I feel the pain to wait. I see a boy such as you, the good muscles, the good reactions to medicines, and I ask myself: Is this the boy? And I want to know. But he makes me wait.” He sighed.
“Let me up, and we’ll see about things right now.”
The headlights aimed directly at him. “Ah—no is problem, the waiting. What else do I have but to wait? There is no opera, no café, no jai alai. They even take the greyhounds from me. So I wait. But I think perhaps maybe when he say it is time, I bring my tools and make you sing first. I miss the music.”
Carl was trying to think of something to say when the door swung open again, and a loud voice Carl recognized said, “Awake already? Carl Freeman, you amaze me.”
“Commander Stark,” the doctor said, and bowed slightly.
Carl filled with relief.
Stark approached the bed, smiling widely, all six foot six of him reminding Carl of a gymnast, all speed and power and no extra bulk, every movement fluid. He stood with his combat boots spread wide, hands on hips, his broad shoulders squared with Carl. Above a neck corded with muscle, his square chin gave way to a warm smile, a crooked fighter’s nose, and piercing, dark eyes that flashed with intelligence and vigor. A black beret sat atop his close-shaven skull. “Dr. Vispera, has anyone else ever woken early from one of your timed comas?”
“No, Commander. He is first.”
“Indeed,” Stark said, and smiled. “Well, Carl, let’s get you unbuckled. Ready to get out of this place?”
THEY WALKED SIDE BY SIDE down the road, talking easily, Stark refusing formalities and treating Carl like an old friend. It was surreal. Strangest of all was how natural it felt, the two of them matching strides and chatting like father and son.
For one reason or another, Stark liked him. Carl wanted to keep it that way. If he could stay close to Stark, he’d be safe from Parker until Campbell blew the whistle on Phoenix Island.
Carl asked how long he’d been unconscious.
“Two weeks, minus half an hour or so. Dr. Vispera induced the coma to maximize healing, then got busy fixing you. Rehydrated you, stitched your wounds, drove out infection.”
“Two weeks? Really?” Fear goosed him—a lot could happen in two weeks. “Are my friends okay?”
“Friends?”
“Neil Ross and Octavia Gregoric,” Carl said. “Are they all right?”
Stark patted his back. “Don’t worry, Carl. After everything you’ve been through, it’s understandable that you might assume the worst, but trust me: everyone is fine.”
“You’re sure?”
Stark laughed. “Positive.”
Carl relaxed . . . a little. He was afraid to ask what he really wanted to ask.
Stark picked up on it. “You must have a million questions. Fire away. Anything you like.”
“Do you, um,” Carl said, deciding to go for it but feeling his face go hot. “Do kids . . . get executed here?”
Stark stared at him for a long second—then burst into laughter. This was no chuckle. It was an explosion of deep, rich laughter that stopped Stark in the middle of the road and bent him in half, the sound of it so full and cathartic that by the time Stark straightened again, wiping tears from his eyes, Carl realized he was sputtering laughter himself.
“Sorry to laugh like that,” Stark said, and put his hand once more on Carl’s shoulder. “Really, I shouldn’t. Boot camps breed the wildest rumors and speculation. If I’d gone through everything you’ve been through, I’d believe something like that, too. Here’s the simple truth: things got out of hand. Drill Sergeant Parker got out of hand. None of that was your fault. You’re safe now, and I’ve talked to Parker. I’ll check on your friends, too. What were their names, Ross and Pandora?”
“Ross and Octavia,” Carl said, feeling enormously relieved. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” Stark said. “I’m sorry you went through all that, but now I’d like you to move past it and dwell on the positive. Your healing, for example. Amazing isn’t it?”
“It still doesn’t make sense,” Carl admitted and shook his head. “I feel better than ever. My cuts are almost healed. My bones feel good as new. The pain’s gone.”
“Welcome to the post-human age. Dr. Vispera used titanium oxide nanotubes, stem cells, and electrical stimulation to mend your bones. You’ve been receiving human growth hormone since your arrival on the island, along with daily doses of the best vitamins, herbs, protein, and creatine. It’s all coming together. But of course your new body will take some getting used to.”
New body? Carl thought. He held out his hands and looked at them. They were fixed up—that seemed miraculous enough—but new? Looked like the same old hands, scarred knuckles and all. . . .
Stark chuckled. “And more: Dr. Vispera gave you certain enhancements during your coma. He implanted numerous small chips into your organs and glands and injected hundreds more into your ventricle, and now they’ve spread throughout your body, attaching to smooth muscle along your circulatory system.”
Suddenly, Carl felt like he was crawling with ticks. “What for?”
“For now, they’re mapping you, electrically and chemically. Don’t look so startled, Carl, and don’t worry. Even now, chips at various points monitor your organs and record your movement, your muscle contractions, the transportation of oxygen, the firing of nerves. They’re learning your processes. Later, they’ll help to improve those processes.”
Imagining the things burrowing into him, Carl had the wild urge to start scratching.
Stark said, “They are like musical instruments. The master chip will be the conductor.”
Vispera had talked about music. The memory sent goose bumps over Carl’s flesh. “I don’t want another chip.”
Stark patted his shoulder. “Well, that will be entirely up to you when the time arrives. Presently, certain risks remain. We’re moving to an improved version, and Dr. Vispera still needs to fine-tune implantation. Soon enough, however, the procedure will be completely safe, and you’ll be allowed to choose. Personally, I can’t wait for the opportunity. The chip will change our lives forever.”
“You’re getting one?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I myself have also received the blood treatment he gave you while you were out.”
“Blood treatment?” This kept sounding worse and worse.
“You’d lost a lot of blood. Dr. Vispera replaced it with special blood, blood to which he’s added his blood virus.”
“Wait—he put a virus in my blood?”
Stark chuckled. “Relax, Carl. It’s not really a virus. It just acts like one. When a real virus invades our system, it hides for a while and then starts pumping out copies of itself. It reproduces inside us. Much like the Special Forces, it enters the back country of its host with a relatively small contingent, then raises an army behind enemy lines.”
Carl imagined little silver triangles tumbling along through his blood, breaking into smaller triangles, these swelling to full size, breaking apart, filling his veins. A shudder of revulsion went through him.
Stark laughed and patted his shoulder again. “This is great news, Carl. The virus is strengthening your white blood cells and making your red blood cells capable of carrying more oxygen. That will make you stronger, help you build muscle, and greatly improve your endurance.”
“Like blood doping?” He remembered a top amateur boxer in Philly getting stripped of his medal for that.
“No—this is much more effective . . . and permanent. For the rest of your life, you’ll heal more quickly, and you’ll be more resistant to everything from infection to malaria. Look—a pig.” Stark pointed into the forest, and Carl saw a dark shape disappear into heavy vegetation. “Vicious animals, these island pigs. See that peak?” He motioned toward the tallest of the stony ridges that ran across the center of the island. “The forest on the opposite slope is thick with pigs. Avoid it. End up among them, and you’ll be lucky to keep your fancy new blood.”
Carl nodded. Nothing seemed quite real.
“Dr. Vispera is no stranger to blood,” Stark said. “Before political unrest brought him to Phoenix Island, he was the ‘inquisitor’ for a particularly brutal South American dictator. Give him a sewing needle and thirty minutes, and he can reveal the deepest secrets of any prisoner.”
“He was a torturer?”
Stark nodded. “You’ve heard the saying ‘The eyes are the window to the soul’? Dr. Vispera has his own saying: ‘The nerves are the keys to the truth.’ Clever fellow, his ‘keys’ have a double meaning: they unlock truth, but he’s also referring to the keys of a piano.”
A chill went through Carl as he remembered the doctor saying he’d make him sing, that he missed the music.
“He considers himself a musician of pain. A maestro. Pain is his piano, and the victim’s nerves are his piano strings.”
Great, Carl thought. I threatened to break his nose.
Stark said, “Despite his monstrousness, he is not so different from you.”
“Not so different from me? The guy’s a psycho.”
“You are both individuals of pronounced talent . . . but born in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I don’t get it.”
They passed under a thicker canopy, the roadside trees arching overhead, meeting imperfectly, dappling the road in sunlight and shadow. Stark said in an airy voice, “If Dr. Vispera had been born in London or Detroit, he would no doubt have risen through the ranks of respected physicians and scientists and established himself in more conventional ways. Unfortunately for him—and even less fortunately for his symphony of victims—he was born in place that valued power over science. Sometimes, the only difference between a Nobel Prize winner and a war criminal is geography. Do you understand?”
“Not really,” Carl said.
“Consider your strengths: fighting ability, physical endurance, battle courage. You have a gift for remaining composed during moments of extreme emotional duress, moments that would tear most boys and men to shreds. Like Dr. Vispera, you suffer from the importability of assets. It’s a paradox. In today’s society, where the American child is rewarded for sitting still in a grid of chairs day after day, your natural strengths have become liabilities. Because you are a young man of action who believes in his view of the world, because you fight when you deem it necessary, you’ve ended up here.”
