Project HALO

Chapter 5

My body stiffens as the door handle moves.

One of the doctors from earlier steps inside, the door locking behind him. Pratt. I position myself on the side of the door, but a metallic glint in the pocket of his white coat makes me back away. A gun.

"Wait," the doctor says in a low voice. "Stay calm. Please."

I lift my hands. "I don't want any trouble."

He's carrying clothes under his arm. The black t-shirt looks like one of mine.

"Hi, Charles. I'm Dr. Malcolm Pratt," he says through the surgical mask. He sounds out of breath. "How do you feel?"

Again with the stupid questions.

I clench my fists. "I feel like I want to get the hell outta here."

"You will," he whispers. He comes closer. "But let me check you first. I can't let you out if you have any symptoms."

"But... Why would I be sick?"

He fishes out a small flashlight from his breast pocket and points it straight in my face. The sharp light burns my eyes.

"Hey!" I flinch and squeeze my eyes together, but he forces them open again with plastic-gloved fingers.

"Sorry," he says, but doesn't stop. "I need to do this. The sooner, the better."

He's right. I don't trust that he'll let me out, but if I'm sick, I would prefer to know.

"Fine," I say and widen my eyes.

The doctor nods. "Look to the right, please. Great. Now to the left."

After a couple of hard blinks, the remnants of white light finally leave my vision.

"Stick your tongue out."

I do as he says and scrunch my nose at the smell of my breath. Stale and sharp like rotten garlic. He holds my jaw and turns my head. Then he pulls out a small thermometer from his breast pocket and sticks it into my ear. After a half a minute, it beeps.

"You are officially cured," he says, and it sounds like he lets out a sigh of relief underneath his mask.

"Of what?" I don't even know if it's a bad or a good thing to be 'cured' when I don't know what I'm cured of.

He doesn't answer, but pulls his mask down to reveal his face. He's younger than I expected, probably in his early thirties. The kind, almost apologetic smile on his face doesn't match the stoic picture I'd painted in my head.

"Is this some kinda test?" I ask.

"No." He hands me the clothes. "We don't have much time, Charles."

"Don't talk to me like you know me," I mutter through my teeth, but grab the clothes.

"It's your clothes from earlier. Everything should be there. Please change and listen to me. I'm here to help." His smile fades. "But in return, I need you to help me, too."

His eyes keep darting to the corner with the camera. It would be easy to grab the gun from his pocket, but by the time I think about doing so, his gaze is back on me.

Instead of focusing on the gun, I get out of the white pants and into my own clothes. They smell of bleach and are stiff against my skin.

"Help you how?" I ask. He works here, and I know this is a test. It has to be. But by the look of his shaky hands and shortness of breath, I'd think he was more nervous than me.