They handcuff me and place me in a cold shower. (Why waste hot water on me). I can smell the chemicals in the water and all I can think about is that everything they do to me they are doing to Connor. I stand there naked and loath them for what they are doing to us. We are not lab rats and I don’t care if the world has gone to hell, immune or not, we should have our rights. But I guess peoples rights have always been expendable.
They march me back to my room and I think I see a glimpse of Connors room down the long hall. There is a single light about one hundred feet down shining from the top of the door. Once in they un-hangcuff me and tell me to sit.
“What are you doing?” I ask as Doctor Grant comes in.
“I’m sorry, Aaron, but I am not allowed to discuss these experiments with anyone. Just know that you are helping us and this country greatly, and should be proud.”
“To hell with this country,” I spit.
“If you say so, but regardless you’re going to have to cooperate. All of you are. Now lay down.” I do as I am told. There is no sense in fighting as it will only make things worse for me, and possibly even Connor. Once I have laid down they connect an IV drip to my left arm. Doctor Grant pulls out a tube, similar to a syringe but with not needle, and screws it onto a connection on the IV’s tube. He then slowly squeezes a light yellow liquid into my arm. It is warm and feels as though I am being pressed into a hot tub.
“What is this?” I ask, hoping for some kinda of answer.
“I’m sorry. I can’t say. However, it’s going to take some time for this to get through your system, so we will be starting the first treatment this evening. Get some rest. We’ll be bringing you a bit extra to eat. It will help to cope with some of the side effects that may come from this.
“Wait,” I say as he stands. “How do you know I am immune?”
“Blood samples, of course.”
“So, you know what the zombie infection is caused by?”
“I’m sorry, Aaron, but I cannot tell you any more.”
I wait to ask the last question, but finally do, feeling desperate, “My son . . . is he OK? I mean, is he sad?”
“I think he is coping with everything fine.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say.
“Yes it is.”
Doctor grant did not come in that evening, but some lab assistant without a name tag. He was quick and efficient. Coming in, injecting me with another liquid. This time clear. And then leaving once again. I lay on the bed, hoping that Connor was OK and that Dawn and Seeley were somewhere safe with Charlotte. I think of Chad and Josh, but can only focus on Connor. I know, or hope, that he is feeling what I am feeling. That the medicine or drugs they give us are not painful. I hope that he is sleeping. That he has escaped this prison through his dreams. And I hope he dreams of times before all of this started. Dreams of playing at home with his Mom, and then running out on the lawn as I pull up on my bike after work. Of helping me in the house and then playing with me, or eating a snack. Simple things that now mean more than any other memory could.
I do not sleep. I break into a sweat some time during the night and have sever chills causing my body to shake constantly. I can feel my body growing exhausted but still I shake and sweat. And I want to kill them. I want to hurt them because I know that Connor is going through the same thing and there is no one there to hold him. But I will soon. One way or another.