Search (SEEK book 1)

Mission

In the following days, I'm forced to stay in bed. My room is dreadful, bland honey-colored halls – the standard color for all SEEK's PSHs, Portable Surgical Hospitals – blah neutral tones on every surface. The only thing that's comparable to a civilian hospital is the overwhelming stench of disinfectant.

My strength is returning with a vengeance. Every minute I feel stronger, more agile. This, however, creates another more serious problem. I have way too much energy and no way to expel it. I'm bored and fidgety. I stare at the ceiling while replaying yesterday's conversation with Dr. Solomon.

"You'll stay off that leg, if I have to strap you down. Are we clear, Agent?" he'd threatened.

But I knew something more was wrong. I'd heard him talking to the other Corpsman the previous night, saying something about "unusually fast healing."

I'd confronted him, demanding to know what the hell he meant, but he wouldn't give me a straight answer.

"Just cell apoptosis and regeneration we haven't seen before. How's it feel?" he'd asked, skeptically squinting at me.

"It feels fine." It wasn't a lie. The pain vanished shortly after I'd woken. I studied his guarded expression, but I knew he was still hiding something. "What's that mean? Apo-whatever?"

He'd diverted his eyes, guiltily. "Your cells are dying and then regenerating, releasing a mature, activated form of Caspase Nine," he'd mumbled.

There was enough silence to fill a football stadium.

I'd pressed again. "Can you repeat that in English?"

His shirt was speckled with sweat as he turned his back to me before answering. "In layman's terms, we have no idea why you're healing this damn quickly."

And there it was. He didn't even know what the problem was, how could he have kept me here like a lame horse? "What does it matter? I'm ready to go back to work." I'd insisted, but I knew it was hopeless the moment he'd begun feverishly scribbling on his clipboard.

"This kind of healing shouldn't be possible and it's not a good thing. You sure you don't want something for pain?" he'd asked again, as he'd done every one of the eighty-six hours I'd been his prisoner.

"No, honestly I feel great. Can't I get up?" I'd asked, my voice verging on whiny. I hated lying here.

"Next week, maybe," he'd growled, tired of explaining his decisions. "If you don't allow that leg to heal properly, you'll be done hunting forever."

That had shut me up as he'd marched out the door.

I have to be able to hunt to help Lindy so I did the only thing I could—I pouted, all night.

I'm restless and stir-crazy. Between the flashes of nightmarish dreams and the constant pinging of the monitors beside my bed, I didn't sleep more than an hour. I'm in a foul mood by morning. Lucky for me Cord shows up with my laptop, pushing a food tray cheerfully to my bed.

"Oh, thank God you're here. You have to help me."

"Why? What's wrong?" He looks around for someone's ass to kick.

"Break me out of this hell! I can't take it anymore." I scratch my head melodramatically.

Cord's face falls. "What, why? Did someone hurt you? I mean, beyond...you know, patching you up?" He points to my right leg.

"No, but they don't let me move. And look what they're feeding me. It's like baby food!" I point to the gray pile in the middle of the tin plate. "What is it? Mashed potatoes?"