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Surprisingly, the lab is well equipped for what they’re trying to achieve. All the chemicals and compounds that are nearly impossible for me to attain are readily available. And in large supply.
When I spot the independent variable, a nauseous tumble rocks my stomach. The drug compound that I notice in analysis right away is one that I would never mix with this cocktail.
Pharmaceutically enhanced MDMA.
Not the run-of-the-mill street drug that, once cut and packaged, is referred to as molly or ecstasy. No. This is pure and concentrated.
This is deadly.
I reach up and adjust my mask, fearful of any powder sneaking past.
“Forty-five minutes, Doctor Johnson.” The voice startles me, killing my concentration.
“Dammit,” I curse. Centering myself, I prepare my workstation.
I understand what they want. And God help me, I think I know how to give it to them.
* * *
Swirling the beaker, I help along the blending of the cocktail. Thin whips of deep blue coil and bloom out within the clear liquid, tingeing the concoction a bright baby blue. I carefully insert a syringe into the mix.
“It’s done,” I say, my hands clammy, my face glazed in cold sweat.
Slow applause performed by one erupts from the speaker. “Very good. I never had any doubt.”
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I set the filled syringe on the table and tear off my gloves. “I’ve done as you asked. I corrected the serum. Now I want to be released.” My words are bold, much bolder than I feel; exerting a forced bravado that I pray doesn’t get me killed.
“Not yet,” the man from the PA system says.
I spin around. He now stands in the room, his presence more threatening than the man next to him wielding the assault rifle. His face is hidden behind a featureless, white mask. Somehow, the lack of definition is more terrifying than the horror mask his lackey dons.
“I promise you,” I say, straining to remove any quake from my voice, “it’s complete. It will work.”
He tilts his head. “I have no fear that you believe that, Miss Johnson. But as a doctor, as a scientist, you must know that all experiments have to be tested conclusively.”
A whimper directs my attention to another one of his brutes as a woman is thrust into the room. She’s clad only in her underwear and bra. Her sleek dark hair mussed, her beautiful face pinched in fear and smeared with makeup as tears track her cheeks.
“No,” I say, shaking my head resolutely. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. And I promise, my skills surpass whoever formulated this drug before. It will…get the results you want.” I cringe, wishing I could detach myself from this reality. “But I won’t be party to inflicting this torture on another human. On another woman.”
I will die before I become anything comparable to the man who tortured me.
“Brave words.” He stalks closer to me. “But I’m afraid this isn’t your choice.”
The brute of a man anchors an arm around her waist, eliciting a shriek from the traumatized woman. She struggles against his hold, but I can tell she’s already too weak, too drained from whatever she’s already suffered. Her fight dies too quickly.
The arrogant man before me slinks closer—so close that my trembling physically hurts; my muscles ache as I refrain from looking up to meet his eyes behind the mask. His hand snakes out and grabs the syringe. I flinch.
“Relax, Miss Johnson.” He runs a finger along my face, and I shudder. “This will be over quickly.”
He turns toward the woman, and before I realize I’ve reacted, I lunge for his hand. Something wild takes over me, demanding and crazed. “You can’t do this to her!”
Within seconds, the man with the gun has me restrained, the barrel pressed against my temple. The hard steel bites into my skin as a sickness washes over me.
This is it. It’s all over.
At least I tried.
