Corporeal Nightmares

Subduction

The single set of stainless steel elevator doors slides cleanly and silently open on the third sub-level floor of the Duncan building. A Latino woman in a dark lavender suit steps onto the seamless linoleum floor. Expressionless, her fluid motion fits nicely with the impeccable tile work.

At the far end of the long and otherwise unmarked corridor, a gaunt Caucasian man in jeans and a lab coat materializes. His motions are frenzied as he sprints to meet his lavender visitor. Completing the hundred-meter dash, he is severely winded.

"Mz. Bizmarke."

"Doctor." Lois Bizmarke snaps her fingers, struggling to recall. "Buchannan?"

The unshaven man winces but quickly regains his composure. "Benson." He laughs awkwardly. "Close enough."

She glares, pointing at his unkempt coat. It is speckled red. "Marinara, I hope?"

"No." He chuckles but quickly stops.

Lois' grimace cracks a bit of concealer on her left cheek. "Cleanliness is next to godliness, doctor."

"I could not agree more but given our timetable." His gush of words is cut short.

"I'm here for a status report," she husks, vision wandering to the end of the hall.

"Were our weekly updates not sufficient?" he stammers. "If not, I can certainly change the formatting or the depth of our reporting."

"They were sufficient." Lois impatiently checks her watch. "I find value in seeing progress in person."

"Of course! Of course." Dr. Benson curtsies obsequiously. "This way."

Lois snaps a thin, blue binder open. On the cover is an embossed heptagon with the phrase "The Duncan Group". "I'd like to go over some numbers from last week's report."

They turn the corner. A gurney laden corridor is full of bodies draped in black shrouds.

"Let me see the latest harvest."

The doctor produces a clear plastic container with a white plastic lid. Inside is an uncut diamond the size of a marble.

"Remarkable." Lois purrs, holding and rotating her prize in the fluorescent light. "And our guest?"

"The subject continues to experience extreme pain."

A muffled scream issues nearby.

Her gaze remains unbroken from the container. "Despite the increased morphine dosage?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"The IV diet has been maintained?" She pauses, running over her mental notes. "The compound Dr. Giles delivered last week."

Benson's hands shake, pen clattering against the fiberglass clipboard. "Yes ma'am."

"Please stop calling me that." She frowns, dropping the specimen into her purse. "Lois will suffice."

"Yes ma... Lois."

Her eyes return to the clipboard, crimson nail tracing over the readings. "Is this correct? Twenty percent increased yield?"

Benson perks up. A bit of pride trickles into his expression. "Yes. Purity is up ten percent as well."

"We need to raise that to twenty, if we're to stay on schedule. If you can't deliver, then we need strong communication of that to our investors." Lois' glasses slide firmly to the end of her nose. "It's important we understand our investments."

"Yes," the doctor clad in blood stammers. "We'll make it a priority."

"Make sure you do."

"He's still in Clean Room H?"

The doctor nods. She strides on, leaving him to gawk for a moment before he hurries to catch up.

She holds forth a sealed, black plastic medical bag. His hands scramble to grab it.

"This is an additional supplement for the subject." She walks into a small control room, walls laden with medical equipment, and taps a code into a keypad. An airlock opens. She immediately walks to an identical keypad on the opposite side of the airlock as the first door seals.

Doctor Benson buzzes over the intercom, urgency in his stuttered speech. "Lois, you have to go through the wash."

Paying no heed, she types another code on the inner lock, the doctor's panicked reflection becoming more obscured by the gas every moment. "It would be the third time in the last hour. Seems highly unnecessary."

"Lois!"

The heavy mechanical lock unlatches with a detached snap. She proceeds inside.

An emaciated man hangs from a rack. Tubes enter his body at his neck pump a blue fluid. Ribs protrude like a xylophone with each inhale. Clad only in a set of blue scrubs, he shivers. The end of a catheter droops from the end of his pants. Lois circles him, appraising him like an animal being auctioned at market. His lower back is extremely swollen. Large vermilion sores speckle the area around his spine.

She inspects the lesions and snaps a few quick photos on a chromed cell phone. "Now this is unfortunate."

"Kill me," the gaunt man mutters.

His speech shocks her away from thoughts of earnings and yields but she quickly regains composure. "Good afternoon, Mr. Dwyer." A managerial tinge creeps into her voice. "I'm glad you're alert enough for a quick discussion. I can understand you might feel differently."

"Kill me." Insistence and anguish mingle in his whisper.

"Marcel, you are far too profitable for that." She flips through his chart with clinical precision. "Besides, you had that opportunity before coming to us." She slides the glasses down again. "You chose to live."

His breathing becomes labored.

"Your death would have been quite quick had you not entered this trial. Your kidney stones would have caused a significant rupture." She sighs, pacing to a chair in front of the open-faced iron maiden. "Quite a bit more painful from this, from my study." She sits, pulling at her suit to smooth any wrinkles that may have formed. "Look on the bright side. At the rate you've been producing these," she pulls a polished diamond the size of a golf ball from her purse. "You'll have paid us back soon. Then you'll be free to do as you see fit."

Marcel Dwyer's shoulders droop so far they appear as though they may fall off.

"You might be wondering the reason for me visiting personally, rather than sending a courier," she sneers. "And while I would prefer that, as I am quite busy, I felt it necessary to see the effects of Dr. Halberstram's serum firsthand."

Marcel's lips move but there's no energy behind them as his panting breaks into more ragged patterns.

"I want you to understand." Lois leans in. "We're not seeking to make this any more painful than is necessary. This is a business. We need to recoup costs." She stands, again unruffling her suit. "If the rodent trials were an indicator, we should be able to advance the time-table. Admittedly, they were a bit rushed but we're trying to find the best compromise for the both of us. Doctor?"

"Yes." A distorted voice crackles over the intercom.

"Sedate him. And administer one hundred CCs of the supplement."

Silence falls for a moment. The man's eyes flutter, then close. Arms shake, then convulse. His skull knocks against a padded headrest. Then, the embattled limbs fall still.

"Just another two years, sir."

Lois walks back to the airlock and departs. The tubing on Marcel Dwyer vibrates slightly as the color of the fluid changes from blue to black.