The After

Chapter 7

Spencer sat back in his swivel chair and slid his spectacles from his face, dropping them on the desk next to the large microscope in front of him. He pressed his eyes shut and gently massaged his temples to relieve the pressure forming in his head. The warm, stale air he was rebreathing was stifling. He had spent hours peering down the scope at the tiny glass slides. The centrifuge whirred to his left, separating the RNA from the virus within. He would need to find a way to break down the genetic components and rebuild them and reform the virus so that it will be much more deadly than it already was. Spencer opened his eyes again and glanced around the room. A particular machine tucked away into an alcove attracted his attention, making his ears prick up and his heart leap- a coffee machine. Slipping his spectacles back on, he quickly darted to the coffee machine and started preparing a batch from the unopened packet of filter coffee next to it. He smirked a little to himself underneath the respirator. These guys had no idea the extent of his coffee addiction. Spencer tugged the respirator down so that it hung around his neck like some peculiar pendant. While the coffee machine bubbled in a soothing symphony, Spencer fished his pills from his pocket. He tipped two into his palm and threw them into his mouth. The bitter taste was instant, made infinitely worse by his efforts to swallow them without water. He grimaced at the taste, causing him to shake from his head to his toes, similarly to a dog shaking off water. The coffee machine completed its magic with a hiss. Spencer smiled for the first time since his arrival at the unknown hell hole. He took a plain white mug from the shelf above him and poured the caffeinated goodness into it. After setting the jug back down, he added several spoonfuls of sugar. JJ's voice rang in the back of his head. Spence, the doctor told you to cut back on the coffee... JJ, nothing comes between a man and his coffee...

Spencer gave a half-hearted chuckle. He missed JJ and the team terribly and it had to have been less than twenty four hours since he arrived at the place, wherever it was. What he would give to see JJ, her beautiful blonde tresses and sparkling blue eyes; to hear Tara Lewis' quips; to watch Luke Alvez or Matt Simmons kick down a door like Derek Morgan used to; to see Emily Prentiss hunched over her paperwork, raven black hair brushing against the papers she was writing on; to play a game of chess with David Rossi; to watch Dr Who reruns with the departed Penelope Garcia. Instead, he was alone in a windowless laboratory which was suffocating. The air conditioning was the only thing keeping the room cool. Spencer cradled his mug between his hands as he looked around the room for any clues as to where he was but there were none. A frosted glass sliding door separated the laboratory from the door he had entered in, creating an airlock of sorts. Feeling defeated, he carried his coffee back to his desk and slumped down into the swivel chair. He stared morosely into his coffee, almost in hope that the coffee would fix everything and let him go home. A voice sounded, causing Spencer to jump up in fright, coffee spilling over the rim of the mug and dripping on his jeans. Spencer jumped up, brushing the coffee from his thigh and looking around for the source.

"Motherf-"

"I see you found the coffee, Dr Whitfield," came the familiar accented voice over a small speaker situated in the upper corner above the desk. A blinking red light attracted Spencer's attention. They were clearly recording everything he said or did in that room.

"Yeah, except now I'm wearing it," answered Spencer with a sigh.

"How are you getting on?" Spencer pursed his lips and set his mug down on the desk. He folded his arms indignantly across his chest.

"Uh... I'm currently separating the RNA from the virus. It'll be a case of trial and error before I find the correct genetic sequence to turn this virus into a biological weapon. Let me ask you this, Mr Renholdt. Do you have any scientific background at all? Surely you have a rudimentary knowledge on microbiology and the spread of contagions and pathogens?" The speaker buzzed as Mr Renholdt fell silent for a moment.

"I have a social sciences background, Dr Whitfield. I'm determined to weed out the parasites that are bleeding our country dry of resources- money, healthcare, food."

"Where did you study? Out of curiosity of course," asked Spencer as he picked up his mug again, "I, myself, taught at Caltech. As you can imagine, my stance on our population crisis wasn't well received." Spencer chuckled as he sipped his coffee, eyes fixed to the camera next to the speaker.

"Berkley." Spencer raised his eyebrows, his mug pressed against his bottom lip, "How far away from testing are you?" Spencer knotted his eyebrows.

"Mr Renholdt. It's going to be some time before I find the correct genetic sequence, and we still have to complete the first phase of testing on mice. Even if I manage to find the sequence, there's no guarantee that this will have the effect you want. This virus is just one of many coronaviruses out there with hundreds of strains. Influenza and the common cold are forms of these viruses and they change every year, with people developing immunity. What I'm trying to say here is, as much as I want the same things you do, and trust me, a virus is a good way of doing it, I'm just not sure this particular one is. It's already got a high mortality rate at this early stage of the pandemic. Isn't that enough?" Spencer sucked in a deep breath as a wave of dizziness hit him and he realised that he must have been holding his breath during his tirade. The buzzing of the speaker broke the silence.

"I think you've done enough research for today, Dr Whitfield. I'll send Arthur down to escort you back to your room." Mr Renholdt's voice sounded low and dangerous over the crackles of the speaker. Spencer gritted his teeth and launched his mug across the laboratory. The mug shattered on impact with the bare white wall, sending shards scattering in several different directions. A large brown stain dripped down the wall, pooling across the top of the skirting boards. Spencer panted, eyes blazing. The airlock door opened, attracting the genius' attention. He turned his head slowly and menacingly towards the frosted door to see a figure standing on the opposite side. Spencer pressed a green button on the wall which allowed the door to slide across. He stepped into the airlock until he was face to face with the man from earlier. He tugged the respirator over his head and shrugged off the lab coat before thrusting them into Arthur's hands.

"I can escort myself back to my room," snapped Spencer, barging past Arthur and walking at speed down the corridor with his hands in his hoodie pocket and his head low.

Realising that Arthur was not following him, Spencer's walk slowed and he glanced around, hoping to get a better look at his surroundings. Remnants of signs clung to the walls with the shreds of life they had left. It reminded him of a hospital. An abandoned hospital... It was like a light had clicked on in Spencer's brain. He remembered reading an article about a wealthy businessman who bought the land that contained an abandoned psychiatric facility back in 2017 in a hope to turn the building into a school teaching the sciences to people with a high IQ called Gold Star. Renholdt... Spencer broke into a run back to his room, navigating the corridors with ease. He reached his room and closed the door behind him and locked it. He pressed his back against the door as he tried to steady his breathing. He darted to his go bag and retrieved his phone.

Renholdt studied social sciences at Berkley. He bought land with an abandoned psychiatric facility in 2017 to teach sciences to people with a high IQ. Gold Star. You should be able to find him. SR.

Spencer stuffed the phone back into his go bag and dropped heavily onto the cot. He had managed to elicit more information than he expected to in such a short space of time. It left him with more questions than answers however, as he was curious about this academy for geniuses. Geniuses like himself. Were there more people like him in the building doing Renholdt's bidding? Were they looking for ways to eradicate the human race too? Spencer's mind raced with questions and thoughts as he lay back against his pillow, staring intently at one spot on the ceiling in a hope that it would lull him into slumber.