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15
CAPTIVE
BLAKELY
When I wake again, my body is numb, my head feels thick. The very texture of the air seems heavy, as if I’ve been submerged under water and it’s difficult to raise my arms or even lift my eyelids. I continue to try, and notice the plastic tubes. One on top of my hand, more in my arm.
I’m wearing a nightgown, like the ones at the hospital. I shift my legs with the jolting realization that a catheter has been inserted. My bladder is empty. I’d be humiliated, if not for the very real awareness that something far more sinister is looming.
I take stock of my surroundings. There are no windows. White cinderblock walls prevent any sounds of the outside world from leaking inside. Which means no one can hear me outside of them. There’s an exposed ventilation system, but the shaft cut into the ceiling isn’t large enough to fit through. I’m sure Alex has thought this through and taken every measure to keep me hidden and trapped.
Underneath the antiseptic smell that infuses this room, I catch the faint scent of water. Not chlorinated water that comes from the tap—but earthy fresh water, as if there’s a source somewhere nearby.
I inch upward on the gurney and touch my forehead. The chains connected to the leather restrainsclinkagainst the metal rail of the gurney, reminding me that I’m a captive. I’m drowsy from the anesthesia. I remember him…and the needle…
You’re sick, Blakely, and I’m going to cure you.
He’s delusional. Or just plain fucking crazy. Either way, he’s playing mad scientist and I’m his patient. What the hell did he do to me while I was under?
As I comb through our conversation, looking for any hint of a way out of this hellscape, one thing stands out.
His sister.
Her murder was gruesome. I saw the news report about a doctor being lobotomized a few years ago, and I recall the killer—but what I need to find out is everything Alex knows about Dr. Mary what’s-her-name.
She’s his reason, his purpose. That means she’s his weakness.
The hollowclangof a door opening reaches my ears, and I take note of the sounds of a metal bar sliding back and the squeak of door hinges. This place might be old. Some warehouse. Which means there could be another way out.
I need to get out of this bed. Before Alex enters the room, I test the restraints. I’m weak and groggy, and the cuffs are latched tightly.
The curtain draws back. Alex is wearing a white lab coat and his glasses and tussled hair, looking every bit his part the mad scientist.
“What did you do to me?” I demand.
He rests a finger over his mouth as he assesses me. “Nothing too invasive yet,” he says, then turns to roll a computer cart closer to the gurney. It’s theyetthat I find disturbing.
“I knew you wouldn’t cooperate and hold still for the scan,” he continues, “so I had to put you under. Not ideal for the best results, but we just needed a baseline.”
I notice the crude contraption on the cart then. It looks like some homemade virtual reality device with sensors placed along the inside. “You did a brain scan,” I say.
“Very good. Welcome back, Blakely. I was starting to worry that the ketamine fried too many brain cells.” He types on the keyboard, pausing to follow my line of sight to the instrument. “Let me explain. It would be cumbersome to lug an fMRI machine here. They’re huge, expensive, unpractical, and really, technology has come a ways since their creation.” He places a hand on the device proudly. “I borrowed this design from a Korean lab that specializes in home brain scanning. For fun.” He raises his eyebrows for emphasis. “It’s all the rage there, scanning brains, discovering what makes us tick.”
As if triggered, he peeks at his pocket watch. “I won’t bore you with too many details, but as you enjoy coding, perhaps you’d like some of the particulars.”
I blink hard, making sure all my senses work. “Seeing as you hooked me up to some brain melting machine, I wantallof the particulars.”
He smirks. “I assure you, it’s completely safe. fNIRS, or functional near-infrared spectroscopy, is the way of the future where brain imaging is concerned. The sensors go right over your forehead—” he demonstrates by sweeping the pads of his fingers across my brow “—and emit light into the brain cortex. Completely noninvasive. The sensors then return light, thereby measuring the remaining power. This reading tells us the changes in oxygen levels. When neurons fire, they use oxygen through blood flow. This allows us to map areas of the brain like the amygdala, where emotions are stored.
“As such, it was imperative that you be right-handed,” he continues, “as the data has confirmed that the left hemisphere of the brain is more susceptible to stimulation.”
“You’re absolutely fascinated by yourself,” I say.
He cocks his head, a slight smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I’m fascinated by you, and what we’ll achieve together.”
“Right. I know how brain scans work,” I say, utter disdain in my voice. “What I want to know is what you plan to do with that information. Build a sex bot? Sell my gray matter on the black market?”
Disappointment registers in the furrow of his brows. There’s still a shadow underneath his eye from the healing bruise, and I realize how damn clever Dr. Alex Chambers really is. How he conned me into believing he was awkward and socially inept—but harmless. A harmless, geeky scientist who only wanted to spice up his dull life with some thrills.
