the nasal hypo. It was not a hypodermic needle but a thumb-sized canister that would spray either a chemical or nanobots up my nose. I think your para-neuron cohesion problem has prevented you from receiving our indoctrination.
Indoctrination? Through the sims?
You really are clever. You should be a Harshan.
You can’t modify the sims. Security is too tight. I glanced around the room. Even if I could get free and run, how could I block them in? Everyone in the room, including me should be quarantined. On the wall next to the door was the alarm for both fire and biohazards. There was no way I could physically get to it.
Oh sure, security for the sims is tight, but only for full indoctrination. Not so for a repeated, simple concept like ‘Everyone knows Harshans are superior.’ You can’t stop that. It’s not enough, though, to get everyone to believe it unless, he closed the drawer and walked around the counter to me. Unless that person is also infected with an engineered strain of T. gondii, and then the concept is like the pheromone that makes the rat suicidal.
He squatted down, put his lips to my ear, and whispered, “I am the cat.”
“Don’t be stupid, Doctor,” I said out loud. “T. gondii is a level 1 hazard. You don’t have the guts or brains to change it.”
He grabbed my chin, his fingers digging into my cheeks and holding the nasal hypo close with his other hand.
“Doctor,” Muna said, “not so rough.”
He ignored her. “This strain is so virulent and contagious,” he said, “it will make Ebola look like a mild flu.”
“That’s not a level 2 biohazard,” I said.
“No,” he said through gritted teeth. “It’s level 4.”
Without hesitation I turned my head as much as I could toward the still-active lab bot and yelled, “Bot-One, you heard him: level 4 contagion. Lock down the lab!”
Too late, Doctor D covered my mouth and started to inject the sedative. The spray filled my nasal passages even thought I didn’t inhale.
Muna pushed him back. Apparently there was a limit to the protozoan-assisted indoctrination.
The alarm rang with a synthesized voice that repeated, “Biohazard lockdown in Lab 9E.” The other two lab bots activated and approached us saying, “Please remain calm. Assistance is on the way.” The doors clicked and sealed. My ears popped as the room depressurized. I inhaled and gagged. My peripheral vision darkened and closed in as my muscles weakened. I gasped, “That wasn’t a sedative, was it?”
Doctor D didn’t answer. He darted around the room trying to figure a way to get out.
My head spun, I lost balance, and slumped back to the floor. No one held me down. Bot-One walked up to me and said, “You appear to be injured. I have notified the clinic and they will send a medical team. Can you move your...” It was difficult to concentrate on its words.
Doctor D was shouting to the others, gesticulating towards a window. Words floated in and out of my consciousness: “throw stool,” “break it,” “no.” I lost track of time. The doors flung open and figures in full-bodied protection rushed in. The last thing I saw was Muna’s face in tears, bending over me, her hands cupping my face. Given a third chance for a profound last thought, I blew it again. It was not something religious like, “God, has your servant done well?” And it wasn't patriotic like, “I have given my life for my country.” It was simply, “But I wanted to sleep with Muna.”
Scene 14
Of all the times waking from a near-death experience, this was, perhaps, the least disorienting. My head throbbed, the light burned my eyes, and my mouth was so dry that I wheezed when I said, “Please tell me this is heaven. I’m tired of doing this.”
Angel Muna slipped into my blurred vision. She smiled. “No,” she said, “not yet.”
I propped myself up on my elbows. No intravenous tubes or wired sensor pads held me back. I was in a small, private ... yes, this was a real hospital room. The sheets were fresh. And flowers? On the nightstand, someone had placed a vase filled with fragrant white and yellow freesia. I motioned towards the glass of water next to it. With eyes that said, Sorry I listened to Doctor D, she tenderly held it to my lips. I wiped my mouth, regarded her warily, and said, “Everyone knows that the Harshan are...”
“Losers,” she finished. “Yes, I know what happened, and in the week you’ve been unconscious...
“A week? Darn.” I smiled. “I missed the calc exam.”
“We all did. You weren’t the only one in treatment. Consider yourself lucky. They had to put you in a coma to treat you. It was close, but at least you didn’t have to get your brain flushed out like us.”
“Really, what did that feel like?”
“Like a calc mid-term.” She smiled. “Everyone else is still recovering. Doctor D is set for his first hearing tomorrow. It’s all in the lab recording and he admits it. Labs in other universities are under lockdown. According to the news, two others are under suspicion. You’ve been on the news.”
I nodded. “Mom and dad?”
“They just left. They went down to get something to eat. They’ve been by your side the whole time. The only thing left for you here now is to get the brain surgery you postponed.”
I shook my head. “I think I’ll keep the holes in my mind. Alex has his benefits.” I sat all the way up and took her hands. “Listen. All these brushes with death have taught me one thing.”
“What?” she asked. Her eyes started watering and she gripped my hands tightly. She already knew what I was going to say.
“I hate cats.”
Her countenance fell. She glanced down.
I rubbed her hands. “And,” I said, “I have got to marry you before I die... again.”
She threw her arms around me and nearly knocked me out of bed. I laughed.
“What’s that for?”
“It’s my yes.”
“You call that a yes?” I asked.
“Only if you call this a proposal.”
***
More from Justin Tyme
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