Lab Rat part 45

Posted: March 1, 2011 in Fiction, Test Subject

“What the hell?” Johnson crawls forward to see what the driver is doing. As soon as his head turns, the EMT starts in on loosening my restraints. “Why’d we stop?” I hear Johnson asking. I’m not reading his mind anymore. If the power’s off, why is my nose bleeding?

Oh. I get it. I’m not receiving because I’m sending. The trickle of blood runs down the side of my face toward my ear. The tearing sound of Velcro being undone fills the box for a second, and my head is mostly free. Left hand, I think. The EMT un-straps my arms, and I immediately pull the neck brace off.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Damn. Johnson’s turned around again. Stop him, I think. The EMT scoops up her syringe and plows into him. In the confines of our little box, he’s got nowhere to go. I hear a yell. She must have stuck him. I free up my feet and scoot to the back door. My head hurts so bad that my vision blurs for a moment. I fumble at the handle of the double doors. My left shoulder hurts too much to really move my arm, so I pull the handle and kick. I hear a gunshot behind me. It’s slightly muffled by the body of the EMT. No time to feel sick though. I jump out into the street. We’re still in the city, but I don’t recognize this neighborhood. I’d have to see a map to confirm it, but I’m guessing we weren’t headed to a civilian hospital. We probably weren’t going to a hospital at all.

“Brinks, get back here!” Johnson is struggling out from under the EMT. Shoot yourself in the foot, I think. He aims the gun at me. “Don’t make me shoot you. There’s no one around to fix you now.” Damn. I needed thirty more seconds of power and I’d have been home free. Who am I kidding? I would have had a head start at best. I can’t let him catch me. There’s no way he’ll make the mistake of leaving the injector on if he gets me again. I guess I’m about to find out what this guy’s scores are like at the firing range. I’m running out of surprises, so I get set to try something a little more conventional. At the moment I lean to run, the driver hits Johnson from behind and they both spill onto the pavement. I’m feeling pretty guilty about this guy shooting a paramedic. I mean, I did tell her to stop him. So I stutter step and turn around. The ambulance driver has the element of surprise on his side. He needs it too; he’s a bit on the round side. He clearly isn’t in any kind of shape to be wrestling for control of a gun, and Johnson has rolled him over.

I take a step and boot Johnson in the face. He flips over onto his back. That felt great. It felt so good that I give him another in the ribs. Now I’m not the only one who wishes my sneakers weren’t recently incinerated. He curls up into the fetal position for a second, and I kick him in the head one more time for good measure. His head snaps backward, and he stops rolling. His breathing is ragged, but he looks like he’s out. I scoop up his gun. “Thanks,” I tell the driver. He’s sitting upright and checking himself over. He got scraped up a bit, and it looks like Johnson got a couple of solid hits on his face, but he’s okay. “Shit – your partner!” I haul the fat man to his feet. I don’t know anything about medicine. “You gotta get in there.” I half shove him into the back of the ambulance.

I have a lot of crap I don’t need or want. I have a super nice Carrera watch with Swiss movement that charges kinetically. I don’t wear watches. I gave Shyloh my old backpack that I used to take to school. I have an assload of CDs and no CD player. I have to get a trio of rings appraised and moved. The list goes on and on. I have a lot of stuff that has never been opened, but no time for a yard sale or an eBay auction. I guess I just need to take inventory and then start asking people. On March 14th, whatever is left is going to Goodwill.


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