K.I.A.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Coming to a dead end, I knock on the metal. It sounds hollow. Could there be something on the other side? If there is, it could be a lab. Labs are usually cut off from other room if the scientists are studying viruses. Also, there would have to be an anti-contamination filtration system to prevent airborne contamination. How do I know this? I can’t remember going to school or having training sessions.

I draw my foot back and kick the metal. The force leaves a small depression. The bolts holding the panel in place have shifted slightly. Seeing how much damage my kick can do, I boot the metal again. With each kick, the metal is slowly knocked off the bolts.

I push the metal in and lean it up against the wall. There isn’t a big filtration system, which is odd. I force the thought to the back of my mind and keep moving.

My knees grow sore from crawling. My hands begin to cramp, so I stop when I reach another vent over a room. It’s a lab. One older man, probably in his fifties, is walking around with a clipboard scribbling down notes. He examines some sort of specimen on a slide under a complex microscope, then writes some more. I watch him going back and forth, examining and writing. He takes out multiple vials from a refrigerator and sets them on the metal counter. He also pulls out a small box of slides. He gets droppers for each of the vials and places a single drop on each slide. One by one, he looks at them under the black microscope.

The vials are the same shape as the one in my room. Can they be the same or are they different? I scoot closer so that I am leaning on the vent. I sit there for several more minutes until I hear the metal moan.

Before I can react, the grate gives. My hand slips and I fall out of the vent. I’m falling head first, which is terrifying, having the ground rushing up towards your face. I twist my body quickly so I fall on my back. A head injury is at the bottom of my list of things to do. With a small yelp, I hit the grate on the metal counter with several vials. My weight crushes the glass and pieces cut into my back. I wince and stand up, looking frantically to the door.

The man turns around and gasps as he sees me. “My goodness! What are you doing, child?” Both of his eyebrows shoot up. I move the grate, which crunches on the glass. He looks past me and focuses on the shattered vials. “Ugh,” he says in disgust, “look what you’ve done. You’ve made a mess….three months’ work down the drain.” He shakes his head in disappointment. 

I set a hand on the counter, half turning to walk out the door.

“Oh no, you cannot go out that door. Let me help you,” he says. “You’re a mess. And my, oh, my, is that blood?” He frowns and places his clipboard on the table.

I raise my hands, prepared to fight. I keep my legs straight without locking them, lower my shoulders slightly so I’m not so tense, and inch my right foot to be a half step from my left foot. I back up, moving away slowly from the scientist. “No. I don’t trust you.”

“You can trust me,” he says. “My name is Dr. Ambrose.”

“Dr. Ambrose,” I repeat.

He nods and advances. “Just let me help you, and you can be on your way.”

“What will you do to me?” I ask, backing toward the door.

“I want to take the shards of glass out of your back. It will hurt a lot more if they’re stuck in there.”

“But how can I trust you?” This man is being strangely kind. Deep in my gut, I know that no one is that nice straightaway. Especially if you’ve ruined their work. He seems familiar, like I’ve meet him before. Had we met?