3. You’re really going to make me get into the box, aren’t you?
THREE
You’re really going to make me get into the box, aren’t you?
As part of the certification process, I’d done several stints in a glass coffin.
The devices prevented outbreaks due to mundane and magical sources, and those on the front lines were most likely to be exposed to contagions.
My only job was to keep calm. The mask, the part I hated almost as much as the idea of being trapped in a see-through contraption, delivered the initial sedative and doses of the neutralizer.
Once I lost consciousness, Perky and anyone else in a hazmat suit would dispose of my clothes, load me in, and flood the box with more neutralizer.
If all went well, the mask would keep me breathing.
The neutralizer had no more than seven days to eliminate any hints of contagion. After that, I’d die from dehydration.
Once a glass coffin was activated, nothing entered or left it, and if I didn’t survive the process, they’d bury me in it. If I got a viewing, they’d cover my coffin with black velvet to preserve my dignity.
I tried not to think too hard about the whole being stripped part of things. It’d been bad enough with strangers doing it, but I knew at least half the men and women quarantining my apartment. Sighing, I shook my head and waited, my nervousness intensifying with each passing minute.
Had I been inexperienced with hibernation, neutralization treatment, and the glass coffin, someone would’ve knocked me out with the mask instead of letting me observe their preparations so I could confirm they did the job right.
Magic supplied the oxygen, and if something went wrong, I’d suffocate unless they had someone on hand able to penetrate the glass barrier with magic.
Few could.
“You’re really going to make me get into the box, aren’t you?” A hint of my dismay manifested as a quiver in my voice.
Perky paused in his work and grinned at me. “If you ask me really nice and fetch your nicest lingerie, I’ll decontaminate it for you so you can go in partially clothed.”
“She will do no such thing,” Chief Quinn snarled, stepping into my apartment. Unlike the others, his hazmat suit was yellow with a blue armband marking him as a member of law enforcement with kill authority in the case of a critical contagion.
Yippee. The man who hated me for ruining his marriage could issue the kill order if he determined I was a risk to public health. “Chief Quinn, shouldn’t you be somewhere safer, like in the hallway? Back at the station would be even better.”
“What she said.” Perky snorted and returned to his work setting up the glass coffin for my habitation.
Chief Quinn crossed his arms over his chest. “And miss the chance to strip search you, Gardener?”
My entire body flushed at the thought of his hands on me.
Instead of begging for it like every cell of my body demanded, I glared at him.
At least his hazmat suit hid his perfection, which helped me control my desire to rub up against him while pleading for him to search me as thoroughly as he wanted.
“Yes, please miss my stripping session.”
It wasn’t until someone laughed in the hallway I realized my words hadn’t come out quite right. My face burned. Fortunately, with so much pink powder covering me, no one would spot my blush.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to disregard your request.”
I liked the sound of that a lot, but I made myself scowl. “That’s stupid. Go back to where it’s safe, Chief Quinn.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. I’m the only one here qualified to operate the mask and seal the glass coffin. You’ll just have to accept me, like it or not.”
Could sedation be faked? I really wanted to fake the sedation. If I ended up dying, I wanted my last memory to be of Samuel Quinn patting me down. That’d be one hell of a way to go. “That’s not at all fair.”
“You’re going in the box, Gardener. Get used to the idea.
” Chief Quinn already had the mask in hand; I glowered at the plastic device designed to fit snugly over my mouth and nose.
I had no doubt he just wanted to do his job and contain a potential outbreak, but I willfully deluded myself into believing he cared what happened to me.
A girl could dream, right? My dreams just happened to involve dead ends, impossibilities, and ditching my virginity in a wild night with Manhattan’s Most Wanted Bachelor.
“Damn it. Fine. I’ll get in the stupid box. ”
“Good. Status, Perkins?”
“It’s ready, sir.”
Shit. I’d hoped for a little more time. I needed to tell Chief Quinn about Magnus McGee and his involvement with the cell phone bomb before he put me under. “What about—”
Chief Quinn slapped the mask over my mouth, and a puff of hot air filled my lungs. “Nighty night, Gardener. Sleep tight and have sweet dreams. We’ll see you in the morning.”
It didn’t take long for the sedative to pull me under.
Later, when I wasn’t alternating between seizures and full-body spasms, I’d remember surviving revival after hibernation was a good thing.
Until the worst passed, I’d remain stuck in the glass coffin with several doctors and nurses hovering in case I required an intervention.
I trembled from weakness, which warned me I’d spent several days in an induced coma.
It tasted like something had died and rotted in my mouth, and I really didn’t look forward to stage two of revival, which involved expelling everything in my body the neutralizer had killed off.
For whatever reason that one of the doctors could probably explain if I bothered to ask, most of it ended up in my stomach.
I bet magic had something to do with it. Magic always found a way to rain on my parade.
I questioned whether survival was really worth the misery of revival. “Please kill me now.”
One of the doctors chuckled, and after a few moments of thought, I recognized him as one of the CDC’s instructors.
“It’s your favorite, Bailey. Aren’t you excited to go through a live run of top-level containment?
You only whined once about it, too. It’s a miracle.
I’ll even give you a gold star this time for your exemplary behavior. ”
“Oh, look. It’s Professor Yale. Did they bring you out of retirement just so you could torture me?
” At least Yale understood me. He’d let me crawl out of the coffin on my own and stew in my own vomit if I couldn’t swallow my pride and ask for help.
While I struggled, he’d laugh. In the end, spurred by his mockery, I’d recover in half the time it took most others.
Everything came at a price, and I’d rather bite off my tongue than ask my cranky ex-professor for help.
I set the bar of victory low: all I wanted was to hit the floor before stage two began. How hard could it be?
“Yes, Bailey. I came out of retirement just so I could torture you. When they called and asked me if I’d deal with our favorite pain in the ass, they actually begged—and offered to pay me for the work. How could I say no? Torture’s usually illegal.”
God, I had missed the old man’s smart mouth.
He was a ray of sunshine among a bunch of cantankerous sticks in the mud.
With a groan, I rolled onto my back. If stage two hit before I managed to sit up, no one would be happy.
Without fail, I’d cry, and then Professor Yale would have to intervene so I wouldn’t choke to death.
“Yay. I’m so happy. How nice of them. So, how’d I do this time, doc? ”
Distractions from the growing discomfort in my stomach would help. No matter what, I couldn’t crack, not yet. If I made it to the floor, I’d consider it a win.
“You lived. That’s good enough for me. You get a passing grade. I even vacuumed the residue so you wouldn’t have to roll in it. Aren’t I nice?”
“You’re just swell.” Clacking my teeth together, I braced for the worst and lurched upright. It went better than I expected, and with a little help from the glass coffin’s sides, I got to my knees. With one good shove, I’d topple over the ledge and flop to the floor.
Maybe I’d set the bar a little higher and make it to the trash can before stage two hit.
Surely they had one nearby just for my use.
Then I could really give the old geezer a hard time when I proved it could be done.
Victory was measured in effort, and I’d show him I hadn’t been a waste of his time.
I hauled myself over the glass coffin’s side and smacked to the tile floor, grunting from the impact. Just because I could, I gave the wretched thing a solid kick. “Stupid box.”
It didn’t even budge. I’d have to work on my acts of defiance later to make them more effective.
Professor Yale sighed and pointed across the room. “Bathroom’s over there.”
Game on. I loved the old man so much. Who else would let me make a total fool of myself and only sigh about it?
I clenched my teeth and swallowed to hold my nausea at bay.
I wasn’t able to walk, but I had no issues with crawling my way to victory.
Maybe I’d go for gold and take care of all the unpleasantries of stage two revival on my own.
That’d teach the professor never to underestimate me again.
Inch by miserable inch, I clawed my way towards the bathroom and made it with seconds to spare. Score. I’d make him eat his words later, after he confirmed I still had guts left after throwing them up.
Victory tasted disgusting.
I got to wear one of the hospital’s fancy paper gowns while Professor Yale tried to educate a bunch of bright-eyed students about the glamorous reality of surviving a round in a glass coffin.
Next time I’d remember to insist on a nurse inserting the catheter.
While setting up an IV was an important skill for CDC qualified nurses and first responders, my arms did not appreciate the kid’s fumbling efforts.
He got it in on the eighth try, and I suspected Professor Yale had picked him on purpose to make me suffer.