Dr. Reischtal drew back as if the virus itself had attacked his faceplate. “Do. Not. Mock. Me.” He placed one gloved finger on Tommy’s right temple, pushing against the bandage where he had drilled into the skull. The pressure increased.
Brilliant red and violet clouds unfurled in Tommy’s vision. The pain made his toes curl, his fingernails dig into his palms.
“I will fill you full of drugs that will render you incapable of movement. Of speech.” Dr. Reischtal did not pull his finger away. “I will paralyze you. I will rob you of everything except the ability to feel pain and leave you helpless on Lower Wacker for the rats to chew on at their convenience.”
Someone knocked at the door. One of the techs stuck his head inside. “The connections have been tested and we are online, doctor.”
Dr. Reischtal withdrew his finger.
Tommy tried not to gasp, and swallowed hard instead.
Dr. Reischtal nodded. “Very well. Notify Sergeant Reaves,” he told the tech. “Mr. Krazinsky is awake.”
The tech said, “Yes, doctor,” and left.
Dr. Reischtal looked back down at Tommy. “While I still believe that you are hiding something, others are convinced that you may be of some assistance in our war. Therefore, if you cooperate, I am willing to grant you limited freedom. We will remove your restraints, for one thing. Perhaps even a telephone call to your daughter.”
Dr. Reischtal saw the look in Tommy’s eyes that Tommy couldn’t hide and gave a thin, emotionless smile. “I will expect your full cooperation, yes?”
Despite himself, Tommy nodded.
They lifted Tommy off the bed and settled him into a sturdy wheelchair. Tommy was hoping they would remove the damn catheters, but no luck. They used the leather straps on the wheelchair to bind his hands and feet and hung his bags from the IV stand connected to the chair.
All in all, it was a nice change of pace from the bed.
Two techs, both wearing full biohazard suits, performed the task. Sergeant Reaves supervised. He wore a bulletproof vest, a blue surgical mask, and a holster on his hip, but never took the handgun out. Instead, he hung back, said nothing, and kept his hands clasped loosely in front of him.
They wheeled him out, and Tommy was shocked at the amount of movement in the hospital. He’d been listening to the increased activity from his room, but it was quite a different feeling to actually see the change. Plastic still lined the walls, floor, and ceiling. Biohazard suits rushed around, carrying equipment or laptops, or pushing gurneys. Most of the rooms appeared to be occupied.
They pushed him into the elevator and hit the button for the second floor. Tommy shifted in the wheelchair, trying to get more comfortable, and felt Sergeant Reaves stiffen beside him. One hand went to the holster. Tommy tried not to smile. It felt good to make the pricks nervous. He wondered if he might be able to use this to his advantage. The techs affixed a surgical mask over his nose and mouth.
The doors to the second floor opened, and he was pushed out into much brighter light. No more rooms for patients—this was the lab floor. Tommy could only guess at what all the shit was used for. Only a few of the hospital personnel on this floor wore complete biohazard suits. Most only wore scrubs, rubber gloves, and surgical masks.
They wheeled him down the wide hallway. The rooms were mostly open on either side, filled with a dizzying array of medical equipment. They passed a table piled high with what looked like clear garbage bags. As he rolled past, Tommy realized that the bags each contained a dead dog. At the far end, he thought he recognized one, and he said, “Wait, stop!”
The tech, startled by the first words he had heard Tommy say all day, actually stopped.
Tommy stared through thick plastic at Don’s dog, Rambo. It looked like Rambo’s throat had been cut. The top of its skull had been removed, and most of his brain was missing.
Sergeant Reaves gave the tech a hard stare and they were off and rolling again, moving faster this time. They pushed Tommy into a conference room at the end of the hall. The room was empty, save for a large square table and a row of televisions, each tuned to a blue screen. A small video camera on a tripod had been set up in front of the TV. Cables snaked away to a computer in the corner. They left Tommy in front of the camera. Tommy heard the techs leave the room.
Sergeant Reaves, standing as always right behind the wheelchair, said, “Mr. Krazinsky is ready.”
A red light appeared on the camera.
One by one, the televisions blinked into shots of various people in lab coats, surgical scrubs, even a few in biohazard suits. Some of the people appeared to be set up in labs, and Tommy wondered if they were in some other room in the hospital, instead of an office, like the rest. A TV near the top displayed an image of a young man with dark, sunken eyes. A yellowing bandage was wrapped tightly around his head, just above his eyebrows.
With a start, Tommy realized he was looking at himself.
A woman, with glasses and hair pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, sitting behind a dark mahogany desk, spoke first.
“Good morning, Mr. Krazinsky. My name is Dr. Halsey. First off, let me apologize on behalf of some of my colleagues. You must understand the hazards in the hospital there; the risk of infection on a large scale has everyone on edge. Those in charge of this operation feel force is necessary for the safety of the nation. Some of us do not. However, time is short. We need to speak to you regarding the incident at City Hall two days ago. The official report has yet to be released, and reports from the scene are thin to say the least. We need to ask you about the rat.”
Tommy found the camera and stared into the lens. “I’m not talking to anybody until I hear my daughter’s voice.”
Dr. Halsey looked flustered. “Mr. Krazinsky, I can appreciate your situation—”
“I don’t think you appreciate shit, lady.”
Dr. Reischtal spoke up. “Perhaps I can solve this problem.” He was on a TV on the bottom, his biohazard helmet on the desk in front of him. He held up a cell phone, dialed, and hit another button. The digital ringing from the phone popped out of the speakers.
“Ahh, hello?” It was his daughter’s voice.
Tommy took a long shuddering breath through his nose, struggling not to let any tears out.
“Hello. Is this Grace?” Dr. Reischtal asked.
“Umm, yes? Uh-huh.”
“Grace, this Dr. Reischtal. I am your father’s doctor. You father is very sick, did you know that?”
“Ummm? Is my daddy at the hostable?”
Tommy knew that Grace didn’t understand. God only knew what Kimmy had told her. He suspected that Kimmy was in the same room as Grace, probably being coached through her own cell phone by somebody from the CDC team here at the hospital.
“Grace, I want you to hang on to that phone because I am hoping your father will be well enough to call you in a little bit. Do you understand that? I am sure that he will want to speak with you.”
“Can I talk to Daddy?”
“I certainly hope so.”
The confusion in his daughter’s voice hit him cold in the gut and he could only imagine the flurry of half-formed questions in her eyes as she said, “Ahh, okay?”
Dr. Reischtal hung up. He stared out of the TV. “Now. You have heard your daughter’s voice. Do not ask me again. I will give you a chance if you answer the questions honestly and without delay. This is my proposition. Does it suit you?”
Tommy nodded. He took a deep breath, then went through the entire thing once again, starting with pulling up to City Hall. He went into detail about the state of the rat, describing the near-starvation, the foam in the mouth, the way it had initially appeared dead, and the look in its eyes when it attacked. He talked about when they went to the bar after City Hall and how Don showed off the torn leather glove. He even talked about how they went down to Blue Island and how he was bitten by the raccoon. He answered every single question. He did not hesitate when they asked him to repeat details.