Lockdown

Seventy-nine

Stripped to the waist, cuffed and in leg chains, Nicholas and Stafford Van Straten, along with the remaining guards captured by the escapees, stood to attention. Mareta hobbled along the line, a black Sharpie in her right hand. She stopped at Nicholas and drew the number one on his chest with the marker. Stafford was marked number two. Just like cattle.

As she reached the third man, one of the guards, Lock spoke up. ‘This is bullshit. They’re hired hands. And what you’re doing is no better than what they were going to do to you.’

‘Except we’re not terrorists,’ Stafford chipped in.

She ignored them both, etched the number three on the man’s chest. Once all the men were numbered, Mareta stepped back to admire her handiwork. ‘Now, let’s begin.’

Two of the escapees stepped either side of Nicholas Van Straten and ushered him out of the room.

They gathered behind the glass partition, Mareta, Lock, Ty, the remaining terrorists and guards and, standing in the centre, with the same look of interest he’d reserved for Lock, Stafford. ‘Finally, someone’s found an actual use for the old man,’ he observed.

Lock glanced over at him as Richard, now clad in a bio-suit, emerged on the other side of the partition and walked towards Nicholas. ‘Don’t worry, Stafford,’ he said, ‘your turn’s coming real soon.’

‘Do I look worried?’

Lock had to concede that Stafford was a whole lot more composed than he’d imagined. Certainly more than when Lock had led him up on to the roof that night.

‘I’ve seen all the data, remember,’ Stafford continued. ‘The vaccine’ll work.’

‘Makes for a pretty damn solid endorsement if it does work,’ said Ty as on the other side of the screen Richard gingerly opened the container and filled a syringe from one of the vials. His hands were shaking.

‘I want you to know that I am administering this entirely against my will,’ he said as he pressed down on the plunger and forced the liquid into Nicholas Van Straten’s bloodstream.

A few minutes later, as Van Straten was led out, Stafford was led in. Nicholas looked straight past his son. His face was pale, his lips were edged white.

‘For God’s sake, it’s only vaccine,’ Stafford said. ‘It’s already been given to the trial subjects and they’ve shown no ill effects.’ He rolled his neck, as if working out some kinks left by a particularly strenuous set of tennis as two of Mareta’s men pushed him down on to the gurney. ‘I’ll stand, thanks.’

The two men forced him down on to the gurney and strapped him in as Lock and Ty shared a look of surprise.

‘Hey, could be worse,’ said Ty, ‘least he ain’t face down. Then he’d really be screaming for mommy.’

‘Not a show I’d be buying a ticket for,’ Lock said.

Behind Stafford, Richard walked over to a large refrigerator, opened the door and retrieved a stainless-steel vial with a rubber stopper from a large white cooler on the second shelf. His hands were steady now as he popped a fresh syringe from its sterile packet.

‘Come on, Hulme, let’s get this over with,’ Stafford taunted.

‘Yes, let’s,’ said Richard from behind the helmet of the bio-suit, filling the barrel.

Stafford raised his head as far as he could and stared, defiant, at the screen. ‘I mean, they’ve all had the vaccine, and they’ve suffered no ill effects.’

‘That’s correct,’ said Richard, emptying the contents into Stafford’s bloodstream.

‘So what do I have to worry about? Nothing, right?’

Richard paused. ‘Nothing at all, apart from the fact that I’ve just injected you with live Ebola variant.’