Page 105 of Death is Familiar

Wherever I was, it wasn’t good.

The world still materializing around me, I made to move, but everything stayed in place. I tried again. And again.

“Whoa, whoa there.” A blurry heavy-set bearded man peered over me. “Don’t hurt yourself, take it easy.”

Like hell was I going to take it easy. I tried even harder.

“The feeling is going to register in your limbs in a second and you’re going to understand why you shouldn’t be doing that.”

I—damn it, he was right.

My wrists and ankles hurt. It took monumental effort to lift my head. Everything was out of focus. But even with blurry eyes, I knew what I was looking at was bad news.

My limbs were cuffed to a cold metal table. My torso covered by a shapeless blue hospital gown. And from what I could tell it was just the hospital gown. Nothing underneath.

The obnoxious off-key singing continued, raising in volume.

“What day of your cycle are you on, love?”

“What—” my throat hurt. My mouth mealy, dry, and I was thirsty so so thirsty.

“How many days since you last bled?”

I know I didn’t hear him right. The last person who’s asked me about this was Almeida One…

“She up?” Another voice, a woman, asked. Deep and raspy, she spoke from somewhere behind me, out of view.

“Yes, just getting acquainted with her cycle.” The man had a well-maintained beard that met his sternum. “Weren’t we, love?”

“I don’t see why you bother asking,” the woman snapped. “It’s a numbers game, just see what sticks.”

“You agreed to try things my way.”

Whatever I’d been injected with was still in my system, everything about me was slow and sluggish. But I knew people arguing over me while I was strapped to a table didn’t bode well, I knew I needed to sober up and quickly if I was going to be of any use to myself.

And I had no recollection of how I ended up… wherever I was.

Squeezing my eyes shut as the man and woman continued their bickering, I tried to remember. All I could recall, was that I was taken against my will. Outside FBI headquarters. In the broad light of day. By people asking deeply personal questions about my reproductive health.

And I could see their faces. At least one of them, for now.

Captors only revealed their faces to people they never had the intention of letting go.

Shit. Shit. I pulled at my restraints. The table clicking and clanging as I bucked and heaved.

“Shhh, shhhh, it’s okay.” The bearded man patted the hair on my head like he was soothing a scared animal. “It’s okay, love.”

“Just up her meds, she looks like a fighter.”

“She’s just disoriented, aren’t you?” The man continued to stroke the top of my head, then gave a gentle caress over my cheek. I had enough sense to turn my head away, but it didn’t accomplish much.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Shuffling footsteps rounded the table, as the woman came into view next to the bearded man, glaring down at me. “She’s not much to look at, is she?”

A curl of bile ate at my insides. Everything about the woman was both severe and plain. Her mousy brown hair pulled into a tight bun accentuated her pointed chin and hawk-like nose. There were no wrinkles around her eyes, or joy lit from within—like a dark hole resided where any kindness should have taken root.

The dreadful singing continued, louder, more cacophonous, repeating something about numbers. Choosing them. It was all far too loud and far too much.

I needed out.