The Thirteenth Union: Prelusion

Chapter Four: Descent in Blood

The door was shut. Finally, after hours or preparations for the coming Salva Serum students, I had a second of peace and quiet to myself. There had been an leak in the containment security in the labs below the surface, and six and a half cubic liters of an amnesia drug, in aerosol form, escaped into the vents; it compromised a third of the dorm rooms. Containment took three hours, and, by then, three other floors were experiencing sudden confusion and forgetfulness. Luckily, they were only compromised slightly. The drug was too weak at the time to have any lasting effects.

I had teams go throughout the contaminated levels and scrub the place until it was beyond museum ready. Beddings had been taken down to the laundry, washed in bleach and then soaked in a neutralizing solution. Surfaces were wiped clean. Curtains were taken out, beaten, and then sent down to soak with the bedsheets. Windows were washed. Doorknobs were shined to perfection. Everything was cleaned and prepared for the coming of the Salva Serum Academy children.

The day had already, from the start, been a bundle of chaos. I had my teachers missing lesson plans and a couple of the students didn't have the necessary documentation sent in on time. There were many last minute schedule changes and entries into the student body. I had my best working on beating out the problems, smoothing them over for the week to come, but, somehow, I couldn't seem to stay out of it.

Janette, the one an only secretary fit to work with me, had been shuttling papers around the facility. She had taken to using a mail cart. Her hair had been frizzy and sticking out in odd place when I walked passed her desk, hot pink lipstick faded, thick-rimmed glasses lenses smudged with fingerprints.

"Does the words 'plan ahead' mean anything to them?" she had muttered to herself over and over as she shifted from the stack of papers in front of her to the computer screens to her left. Her finger clicked repeatedly on the mouse, dragging and pasting miscommunicated information. Her phone was blinking, indicating that she had at least three other people on the line, but speak just lay face down-and she didn't look too keen on picking it up again.

Even from my office now, I could hear her huffing and puffing, throwing pens and smacking her travel mug on the hard surface of her desk. By now, I would have violently swiped everything off my desk and walked away from the chaos, but she had the tenacity needed to plow through. The keyboard clicked away like the mouse; the phone rang again, and again, and again; and she somehow managed to keep her old and senile father on her cellphone.

"You're lucky I don't quit, Zolnerovich!" she screamed from her desk, her words slicing through the frosted glass of the door. "Because you're not giving me a raise for this crap! And your students' parents have no idea how to fill out medical paperwork!"

Something else with a hard surface met something equally hard, and she let out another groan of frustration.

I'd been going strong. Ten whole minutes had passed and no one had burst through the door screaming "FIRE!" I took the sudden release of pressure as an indication to lean back in my chair, cross my legs, and begin to read the newest report from the lab.

A stack of sturdy metal folder lay on the side of my desk, each holding a fourth of an inch packet of paper that held vital information about out clinical trial participants. They had all volunteered for this testing, even with the possibility that certain death was listed in the short list of long-term side effects. Twelve out of our thirty still remained. It was amazing that they'd lasted this long. I didn't believe that anyone of them would make it passed Phase 1, but more than half of them did. And, unfortunately, they died during Phase 2. At least, I still had twelve remaining-enough to finish the experiment and fill out the need information for my research.

I opened up the top folder. This volunteer had been one of my own choosing. Her name was Victoria Wood. She had been working The Strip in Las Vegas in a sequin cocktail dress and stiletto pumps that were much to big for her, when she first came across me. My first impression of her was very bleak and saddening. Her skin was sickly, almost transparent. Her brown hair was dull, with split ends and deactivating roots. At the time, I could've counted the ribs through her dress-I could have counted each bone in her body.