The Things We Bury - Part 1: In Anticipation of the End of the World [Completed]

Chapter 2: The Music Box (Part 2 of 6)

The lack of any sense of motion was infuriating.  The elevator could have been going up, down, side to side, or just sitting there.  Instead of numbers, a little LCD screen showed yellow lines scrolling upward.  What they represented wasn't clear.  Were they floors?  Feet?  Furlongs?  Or were they only there to let you know something was happening?  Barbara Gracie had counted more than eighty when they stopped.

The giant, brushed steel door didn't open.  She stared straight ahead at the two ghost figures shimmering in its reflection.

"This is the first of the Gateways," R.J. explained as he stepped over to a security panel.  She had noticed it when she first stepped in but chose to ignore it like she tried to ignore R.J.  At least the panel didn't keep chattering.  "They are a bit like airlocks.  Once you're sealed in between the two doors, you need to give your credentials."  He gave a small, tense laugh.  "This one is a bit unnerving.  We're suspended halfway between the surface and the lab."

R.J. pressed the palm of his left-hand flat against a sheet of glass and entered his passcode with his other.  It took Barbara a second to realize he was also looking into an eye scanner. 

This was the first, he had said.  How many more would they have to pass through?  This was going to get old very fast.

An electronic voice said, "Please state your name."

He leaned toward the panel and said in a clear monotone voice, "Reginald Jeremiah Blass."

"Reginald?"  Oh, how perfect.

"Grandfather's name.  I didn't pick it.  Your turn."  He motioned for her to go over to the security panel.

"Didn't you just unlock it or whatever?"  She waved her hand as a replacement for the correct word.

"It senses the number of heartbeats.  Everyone has to enter their code.  And there's a time limit."  He glanced at his watch as if to make his point that time was getting short.

She stayed rooted to the spot.  "And what happens when time runs out?"

R.J. pointed to the vents in the ceiling.  "Fentanyl gas.  Apparently it knocks you out pretty quickly.  And security is alerted."

Okay, that's pretty insane. 

As much as it bothered her to comply with these ridiculous procedures, she didn't like the image of herself unconscious and crumpled on the floor.  That was not how she wanted to see Delgado again. 

While she went through the complex procedure, R.J. rattled on.  "There are three more Gateways downstairs: one at the entrance to The Music Box and one at each entrance to the subject's enclosure."

"What is the Music Box?"

"It's the code name for the base.  Technically it's the whole building.  Although, everyone just calls upstairs Aira.  The workers in the offices are all civilian contractors, who are completely unaware of the real work we're doing down here.  They think their working for an NSA listening post and we're running a black site for suspected terrorists.  So remember the cover story in case you run into one of them."

The yellow lines began to scroll, and she assumed they were moving again.

"I thought the cover story was that it was a cosmetic company."

That was one of the few bits of information they had given her.  When she got off the plane, she had found a whole new life waiting for her.  A brand new car, a furnished townhouse, cell phone, and a package explaining her cover as a veterinarian in Aira's animal testing lab.

"To the public, yes.  To the government, we're NSA."

"A cover story for the cover story?   Paranoid much?"

"You have no idea."  R.J. flashed a good-natured smile that disappeared when he saw her stony face.  "Once we get down to the Music Box, I'll give you the tour.  Then you can get settled."

"The first thing I need to do is see my patient."

"Before she came here, a doctor examined the Subject and made a baseline assessment.  There's a copy in your office.  You can review it when—"    

"No, I want to examine her."  She might have been reduced to being the private nurse for a freak, but if she had to take care of the dog-faced girl, she wasn't relying on the report of some hack.

"Of course, we'll start the tour in the OC.  The Observation Center is where we monitor the Subject. The government has set up the enclosure with some sophisticated sensor, and you can get readings on her vitals remotely."

"I'm a doctor.  I will be examining her – in person."  Each syllable rang like a hammer hitting an anvil.

"Orders are that no one is to have any direct physical contact."  R.J. turned away and became fascinated by the yellow lines flashing on the screen.

"Your orders?"

"Wiley's.  Or the people he reports to."  He shrugged as though they were one and the same.

"Well, I guess the first thing I'll have to do is pay our dear Agent Wiley a visit."

They rode in silence.  R.J. shifted from foot to foot.  Finally, he broke the arctic silence.  "Don't get me wrong, I appreciate your dedication.  If it were up to me...  Anyway, you can ask Wiley about it.   We can postpone the tour."  Then after a beat, he said, "So are you a pediatrician?"

"Trauma surgeon."  She answered automatically.  How quickly it all came back.  She was always proud of the work she did and how she longed to be back in that high energy environment.  Despite all the secrets and her strange patient, this job looked like it was going to be too dull to bear.  That might be fine for a stiff like R.J. but—

Wait.  Does he not know about me?

"Wiley didn't show you my file?"  She watched his face trying to detect if he was lying.  It was ashen under the harsh florescent lights — the pores on his face looked cavernous.   His neck muscles were pulled tight.  His pupils were constricted to small points drawn on by a ballpoint pen.  He was on edge, but what he said was the truth.

"Personnel files are sealed.  But personally, I think it would be helpful to know everyone's skills in order to manage this team effectively.  Wiley didn't exactly agree."

So it was a clean slate after all.  Just liked they had promised.  Not even the people here knew who she was.  Of course, Wiley knew.

Hmm, I wonder if Wiley wanted to keep it a secret.  Was he worried about the truth getting out?

"Where did you practice, if I may ask?" R.J. asked.

"I was at Hoffman Memorial in St. Paul, until 2009."

"And after that?"

"Prison."

"You were a trauma surgeon in a prison?"  Skepticism and fear wound around his words.

She let her answer out in a blank, dead voice and relished the way the remaining color drained from his face.  "No, I was in for murder."