Playing with Fire: A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)(9)
“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.