17. Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Theo
It feels almost… wrong.
Well, as wrong as I could be fucked feeling for someone who doesn't give a shit about most things.
When I offered to do this, it didn't quite occur to me that I'd have access to things that have been previously out of my reach.
And truthfully, I don't think I like it.
Life's too short not to piss off people who have a superiority complex. I'm not afraid of repercussions—I prefer to set the scene. If they are tough enough to handle dishing it out, then they are more than capable of dealing with the consequences of their actions.
Just because I agreed to help, doesn't mean I have to do it Damon's way. In fact, I would argue that my way is better.
Staring at the access pad, I decide to do what any sane person would—I smash it with my fist.
Chunks of plastic casing fall to the floor, scattering around my feet. Anything I can do to be a financial burden to Lilydale sounds appealing. There's peace in knowing that they continuously have to replace things because of me. Let that be a financial lesson for them—don't piss off the hands that feed you. If they're going to make money off us, their first mistake was treating us like animals.
The staff card lays forgotten in my pocket as I pull open the door to the stairwell, listening for noises. It's dead quiet—only the echo of my own sounds rumbling around the concrete walls.
I take my time descending the steps, wondering if the guards will come and investigate. Apparently their alarm systems are back up and running, so they would get an alert about what's happening. It's probably old news by now that their colleagues were ripped to shreds down here, and I'd bet my ass that none of them have the guts to try to intercept.
Given how quiet things have been the past twenty four hours, I imagine that the staff are scrambling to do damage control—probably more focused on their reputation to the outside world. It's a dangerous limbo we're in—an opportunity to cause destruction without them doing much in return.
Their retaliation will come, no doubt. It's just a matter of when. But by now, if they have even half a brain when putting their heads together, they should realize that we're not going to take their bullshit.
When I finally reach the underground hallways, I take a moment to remember Damon's instructions. I'm familiar with the tunnels, but from what we know, they moved their equipment before they took Avery. Grey and I checked out the other side of this secret facility, but now I need to locate where the actual labs are.
I wouldn't put it past them to have moved again, but from what I've heard about their setup, there likely hasn't been enough time to do so.
Part of me hopes that's true. I really want to come face-to-face with the doctors who thought it was acceptable to put their hands on my girlfriend. I want to see the fear in their eyes, have them beg for mercy like their victims have done. Maybe then, they will have an epiphany. Apologies mean nothing if you don't understand a basic level of empathy. People like that will offer empty promises and apologies, too caught up in their own beliefs to acknowledge the harm they have caused.
But if they experience it first hand, that can change everything.
As I move down the dark corridors, I examine the area for confirmation that I'm heading in the right direction. There's only so many hallways down here, but the monotone colors, vast darkness, and closed doors can confuse anyone.
A speck of maroon draws my attention near my feet and I pause, eyes narrowing on the ground. More spots appear as I search, each growing larger in size, until I find huge stains on the concrete, hidden in the shadows.
I'd recognize bloodstains anywhere.
Confident with my sense of direction, I continue on, eyes glued to the door that appears at the end of the hallway. Its double doors are closed but I know without a doubt in my mind that I've found it.
My ears listen for sounds when I stop in front of it, excitedly imagining the scrambling of staff as they come to terms that there's a monster outside their door. I imagine their fear gripping them tightly until they can't breathe, paralyzing them with horror. Unfortunately, I hear nothing through the thick, heavy-duty doors, so I turn my attention to the access pad.
Ignoring the staff card again, I smash it to pieces, wasting no time in jerking the doors open.
Damon gave me a little background of the layout, explaining where he found Avery and that other girl. He mentioned medical records on a desk in the main hallway, specifically requesting for me to grab what I can. When I asked him what he wants me to do if I come across anyone, that's where he got a bit hazy on the details.
" Do whatever. "
Avery would kill me if she found out what I was doing. I know she would worry, which is exactly why we haven't told her. She'll get filled in later—Grey was going to keep her distracted during free time so that she wouldn't get suspicious.
My footsteps are silent as I enter, noticing immediately that it's too quiet. Even if they had heard me smashing the door open, it wouldn't give them enough time to run—hide, maybe. But I'd be able to hear them.
As I venture in further, I spot the desk that Damon mentioned, giving a quick glance down the deserted corridor. Around the other side, I stare at the clean surface, not a hint of paper or stationery in sight.
I rattle a drawer under the desk and it's unlocked, completely empty too.
They've abandoned ship.
Likely only temporary until they gather it's safe to return or find a new location, but either way, they have wiped all evidence of their revolting, money-funneling antics. It's disappointing. I was really hoping to come across their setup in full swing so I could show them what real torture is.
There's a few other drawers and cabinets so I check those before turning my attention to the rooms. The padded white walls make it easy to distinguish what they were used for so when I reach the end of the hallway and open another door, I'm surprised to find medical equipment.
I couldn't tell you the difference between them or what they are intended for specifically, but I do know they were used for whatever fucked-up games they played.
Pacing around the room, I focus my attention on looking for specific items. Eventually I find something suitable in a built-in storage space, grabbing an IV bar and dragging it across the room.
It's almost weightless when I pick it up and turn it to the side, taking a few steps before I ram the metal pole into the monitor on one of the machines. It just cracks at first, but the second blow shatters it.
Readjusting my position, I swing it like a baseball bat, smashing the equipment into multiple pieces.
There's no rushing—I take my time, making sure every single piece of needed equipment is reconfigured into some type of artwork that takes on a new form of abstract expressionism—a salutation to the rage I feel. Having to pause operations is one thing, but having their expensive equipment trashed is another. I can't imagine the government agency will be too thrilled with Lilydale after this.
When I enter the next room in search of more items to destroy, I'm pleasantly surprised to find a living, breathing body. He's just as startled as I am by my sudden appearance, hands gripping cords attached to the machine as he pauses. It's obvious he's trying to save the machine, likely aware of what was coming. It's not exactly like I was being quiet.
"Well, hello there," I greet coolly. "What brings you here?"
I have to hand it to him—if he's scared, he doesn't show it. Straightening up, his eyes narrow, and it's then I take notice of a syringe laid on the chair next to him. Well, if this asshole thinks he has a chance of getting me with that, he's sadly mistaken.
"You shouldn't be down here," he scolds, like I'm a child who's gone out of boundaries.
"Neither should you," I respond. "But alas, here we both are."
My eyes scan over his white lab coat. It's clear what he is but I'm not interested in that. The only question that I want to know is whether he put his filthy hands on Avery.
He clears his throat, carefully placing the wrapped-up cords atop the machine. "Whatever you are thinking, it's not worth it. I've already called security."
I laugh, gripping the metal pole as my fingers dance along it. "I guarantee you don't know what I'm thinking. But I'm happy for an audience if they bother to come."
"Why don't you tell me your name?" he asks, bored. Many doctors have tried to manipulate me, so his stalling, distracting tactics aren't going to work.
"There's no need for pleasantries," I shoot back. "We won't be crossing paths again. But on the subject of pathways—do you know Avery White?"
His face is emotionless but his refusal to answer tells me everything I need to know. He was one of them.
The slimy bastard thinks he's being slick, but I can see his hand edging toward the syringe, trying not to make it obvious. I decide the best thing to do is fight fire with fire.
"What does that machine do?" I ask curiously, distracting him.
I watch as his eyes dart to it, concern finally showing on his face. "It's an ECT machine. It's quite expensive," he grunts, delirious if he thinks that's going to deter me.
"Electroconvulsive therapy?" I mutter, mostly to myself. "Interesting. Has it been used recently?"
Once again, he gives himself away with silence and my fist clenches around the metal pole. It must suddenly dawn on him why I'm asking such specific questions about Avery and this machine, his hand snatching the syringe up.
Before he can get any further, I swing the pole toward him, catching his rib cage and back. He lets out a loud groan, legs buckling as he reaches for the chair to steady himself, syringe falling to the floor.
I take another hit at him, this time purposely aiming for the backs of his knees. The force sends him buckling to the floor, while I step closer, plucking the needle up from the floor.
"I'd ask what's in this," I murmur, looking at the swirling liquid inside the barrel. "But truthfully, I don't care."
My hand shoves the needle into his neck, pressing down on the plunger as his arms fly up in an attempt to stop me. His hand grabs the syringe, ripping it out from his neck but he's too late.
I'm quicker than him, the drug already in his body.
"You stupid, mentally deranged child," he growls, trying to push himself from the floor. Whatever was in there seems to be working fast, coupled with the hits from the metal pole. He's struggling to lift his own weight.
"Not a child, but I doubt that would stop me even if I were," I reply, dropping the pole so my hands can lift him by his lab coat.
Slamming his back onto the chair, I fasten the leather restraints around him, his body getting weaker each passing second. I think he tries to speak but the words are caught in his throat as his eyes roll for a split second.
"You'll have to be patient with me, Doc," I mumble, pressing buttons on the machine. "I'm not sure how to work this exactly. But I'm a quick learner—I'm sure I'll figure it out."
Following the wrapped-up cords, I check it's all plugged in and hit the on button. I smirk as the screen flashes to life, grabbing the electrodes and pressing them harshly into the sides of his head.
I lean down so our faces are less than two inches apart, smiling widely at his struggling frame. His eyes roll, regain focus, then roll again as he fights the drug, finally getting a burst of energy to speak.
“What do you want to know?” he grunts, thrashing his head side to side in an attempt to dislodge the electrodes.
Even the most confident men can fall when their own life is resting in the hands of another. It’s very fitting–I bet Avery felt helpless too. Now, he has scored himself a first-class ticket to the experience.
I play innocent though, letting him believe he might get his way. “You’re open to having a peaceful conversation? Good.”
His eyes flash, annoyed, then relieved. “Yes. I’ll tell you what you want to know then you let me go.”
Grabbing a stool from against the wall, I bring it to the side of the chair, sitting down. “Okay,” I say happily. “Did you experiment on patients down here?”
“Yes,” he growls out.
I nod, showing I’m pleased with his honesty. “And Avery White?”
“I believe she might have been down here.”
Wrong answer.
Turning to the screen, I press some keys. “Which one starts the machine?”
“Okay!” He yells, words slurring. “Yes, Avery was down here. But I don’t control who they send.”
Pausing, I keep my finger above the keyboard in a warning. “Who decides that?”
“The Lilydale board presents to us a list of potential candidates. They are numbered in order of interest based on their diagnoses and background. Our in-house team then gives recommendations relating to which conditions may be best suited to our research methods. After that, it’s up to Lilydale who they send down.”
“Lilydale makes the final decision?” I reaffirm. “And why were you interested in Avery?”
His eyes dart to my hovering hand. “Her traumatic background and experience with abuse. Earlier candidates weren’t able to properly adjust to our methods. So, our in-house team decided that someone with that level of mental injury might be better equipped for longer testing to allow us adequate time to draw conclusions.”
I nod, keeping my face blank despite the burning rage that grips me. “And how did she handle your methods ?”
He scoffs, remembering back. It pisses me off because he’s given himself away–he did touch her.
“She’s very strong-willed ,” he says with a hint of sarcasm. “It surprised us. But certain methods were more effective than others.”
“Like this one?” I ask, waving my hand over the keyboard.
“This one was more catatonic than anything–” he stops himself, pressing his lips firmly together. I watch as his body tenses, regretting his words.
I remove my hand away from the machine, giving him a false sense of security. “And what one worked best?”
The question makes me feel sick. Understanding on a descriptive level what she went through is just as bad as seeing her struggle with it. Knowing and seeing what they did makes it even more real. I could see her trauma in her face the night she returned, but looking at this machine and chair, imagining her strapped down, paints a picture I’ll never get out of my nightmares.
“We studied her brain waves while showing her various forms of media.”
“What kind of media?” I ask him. “How do I turn this back off?” It’s a lie, my finger pressing the screen carelessly like I’m confused. But in reality, I'm hitting the right-pointed arrow—underneath the word voltage.
He breathes a sigh of relief, slurring together words quickly. “Lilydale mentioned that she had become attached to an individual. They provided us footage of him with another former patient.”
It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. My jaw clenches as I place my hand back on my lap.
“Thank you, Doctor–?”
“West,” he mutters.
“Always a pleasure, Dr. West,” I say calmly, hitting the start button on the screen and standing up.
His screams follow me out of the room, the sound of buzzing electricity entangling around them. But by the time I get to the end of the corridor back to the entrance, I can’t help but smile.
It’s gone deadly quiet.
What a shame.