Lurk

Chapter Twenty-Five

After enduring the stale taste of wheat and other barely recognisable wholemeal products, Lurk was able to speak more fluently. He would tell his story, no matter how grim for the first time. He didn’t care what White thought, because at the end of the day, they were stuck in this together.

“That man... I was pretty sure that it was the same person who kidnapped me,” he sighed, hands linking at the thumbs. “But now I’m not so sure that these terrorists managed to single-handedly pull it off.”

White was feeling much more quizzical. “So, do you think that this bloke had foreign contacts?”

“It’s the only logical explanation. I was stupid to talk about family when they had me tied down to that chair. He must’ve found them...”

It was infuriating for White being unable to read Lurk’s facial expressions. Behind the zombie-resembling mask, he was little more than a pair of lost green eyes. His body language told a story of neither guilt nor regret, but somewhere within that shell, White knew – or mainly hoped – that the humble Wayne Mason was alive.

“Where did the mask come from?”

Lurk became rigid. “I was... going to get to that in a minute.” Scratching the side of his head, he put all self consciousness away for a moment. “Do you know Geoffrey Bridges?”

Shit. White gritted his teeth. “I’ve heard that name before, yeah.”

“Well, I woke up in the medical centre, just after getting unintentionally high with Grungy. That was some decent weed. Anyway, none of the doctors wanted to treat me. They advised that I was put down, but for some stupid reason Dunn spared me.” It had made little sense in his head, but as the words leaked from his mouth, Lurk suddenly saw the story of his misery in a whole different light. “Damn.”

Two months previously...

DMB Medical Centre

13: 32

The whole world was blurry. The stone ceiling hung high above, dripping with unknown fluid, and around the prisoner’s limbs were metallic restraints. He wasn’t moving anywhere, no matter how much he struggled or swore. The first voice to reach his ears was that of an aged German, with a sharp tongue.

“I assure you, General; he will be under the upmost care throughout the proceedings. Like a pharaoh in ancient Egypt...”

The click of a door shutting brought him into full consciousness, but only to see a spectacle-wearing mouse of a man, looming above with an arm-long syringe in his hand. “Sorry.”

“Fuck!” Wayne lurched forward as the top three inches of the hypodermic was plunged into his left arm, behind the elbow.

His muscles were tense on penetration, and from experiencing many blood tests in the past, he knew that it would only amplify the throbbing. As soon as it had sunken in, the needle was yanked back from his arm, leaving a mess of blood and tears in its wake.

Wayne clenched the arms of the operating chair, breathing heavily to endure the agony. Had the lab rat even injected a needle before? As he fumbled about with a bandage, the rookie practitioner didn’t create the greatest first impression. But once it was secure, Wayne felt a lot more secure in himself.

“Who are you? Where am I?” his eyes twitched uncontrollably, struggling under the harsh light fixtures.

The room was more of a lab than an operating room, with the chair completely out of place amidst the Bunsen burners and bubbling beakers. He was in the medical centre - that was for sure -just not within patient-friendly area. The experimental labs were strictly off limits to most military personnel, except for people such as the General himself.