S.M.A.R.T. (The Subject of Mind Altering Research and Testing)

Chapter Twenty-two

The General sipped at his third glass of whiskey and starred around the office, trying to steady his eyes. He sat, contemplating his next move of how to deal with Michael. He needed Michael out of the picture now. He knows too much. He got up and almost fell over. He had been drinking more since he had the confrontation with Michael. Him having to make a deal with his own prisoner drove him crazy. He needed to remove Michael from the situation.

He stumbled down the hallway of his wing, past his bedroom and out the locked doors, forgetting to close them behind him. Slowly, and in a frugal attempt to be quiet, he led his drunken legs down the corridors, steadying himself on the walls as he stumbled. Knowing Michael would be asleep in the darkness, made the thought even sweeter. He told himself he would have done it man-to-man, but he knew he was drunk, and that Michael would be able to take him down all too easily. He was going to kill Michael, and frame one of the guards for it, it didn't matter which one. He'd have given up Gus, for all he cared, he just wanted Michael dead.

He made his inebriated way down the turns to Michael's ward. He stopped in the shadows just down from Michael's hall door. He sauntered over to the door and typed in the password. It took him two tries, but he managed to punch it in correctly, to his own surprise, and he stumbled into the hallway where he would murder his victim. To his absolute shock, Michael was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was in another room, for just this situation. He panicked. He was drunk, and Michael would have the upper hand if he saw him coming. He checked the other rooms, but Michael wasn't in any of them. The panic filled him up and spilled over the brim like a cup, overflowing. Michael was roaming somewhere around the place, he knew. He had to find him.

The General was about to leave Michael's corridor, when he noticed the journal was sitting on Michael's desk, just waiting to be read. He didn't think I would be here, there is his journal. There must be another hiding spot. The General sat down on the bed to read. His eyes fell upon the codes that Jim had given him. How did he get these? Maybe I won't kill him yet. I'll need to change the codes, and see how he likes that. He continued to scan the pages, when the pieces started to fit together, and it hit him. This was an escape plan, and it looked so far like it could actually work. Michael was planning on somehow having a map to the building, and monitoring the guards door schedules, and he had already chosen a likely route that he would take.

The drunken General started to formulate his own plan. He decided that he wouldn't change the passwords to his door, and he wasn't going to take care of Michael that night. He was going to let Michael think that his little escape plan was going to work, and ambush him the night he intended to leave. Then, he would have a justified reason to kill him.

He realized Michael could be back anytime. If his new plan was going to work, Michael couldn't know that he was reading his journals again. He put the journal back down, and left Michael's wing. He still hadn't seen Michael, and started to wonder if maybe he had found some way out already.

He can't have gotten out. Nobody has the password but me, and it's locked safely in my office. A flash of the door to his office went through his head. Fuck... He turned and went at the quickest drunken pace he could manage. He had to get back. Michael could have been in there and gone by now. He had taken ages to stumble over to his quarters, and even longer reading his journals.

He made it back, and to his horror, the door was wide open. He had left it open, he knew. Michael couldn't have opened it, but, if he has been in my office... Dammit, why did I drink so much? He was starting to sober from all of the realizations.

He tried to search through his office, but he found no trace of anybody having been there. Everything seemed to be where it was, but he couldn't be sure. He had no idea how he had left everything, and the pill never helped him remember when he was past this point into his rye. He had to hope that Michael hadn't come through, there was no way to tell.

He sat at his desk, and reached for his bag of pills. He had managed to secure himself a nice bag from the time the testing had stopped. Four pills per week, per month, for three months, and he got two per week to add, even with the testing resumed. He had forty-three pills left. He ate one.

The feeling took over him, and he told his body to bypass the effects of the alcohol. It worked, and he was clear headed again. He was glad he didn't kill Michael in his drunkenness. It would have been hard to justify. This plan was much better. He could simply wait for Michael to write down more details about the escape, and then he would be able to ambush him once he went outside. He could say that he tried to bring him back, but once he was outside, Michael put up a fight, and that he had no choice but to kill him.

He gloated to himself about his new plan. He was going to finally get rid of the pest, once and for all. Michael wouldn't have any idea that he was going to be there, now that he had the pill to help him be discreet about his investigations.