Thomas’s chest constricted and his throat seemed to swell. Everything was on the line, but he was frozen.
Janson barked orders. “Dr. Christensen, quickly. Who knows what these people are up to, but we can’t
waste a second now. I’ll go tell operating personnel to stand their ground, no matter what.”
“Wait,” Thomas finally croaked. “I don’t know if I can do this.” The words felt empty—he knew they
wouldn’t stop at this point.
Janson’s face burned red. Instead of answering Thomas, he turned to the doctor. “Do whatever it takes
to open this kid up.”
Just as Thomas opened his mouth to speak, something sharp pricked his arm, sending jolts of heat
through his body, and he went limp, collapsing onto the gurney. From his neck down he was numb, and
terror flared inside him. Dr. Christensen leaned over him and passed a spent syringe to a nurse.
“I’m really sorry, Thomas. We have to do this.”
The doctor and a nurse pushed him farther onto the bed, hoisting his legs up so that he lay flat on his
back. Thomas could move his head slightly from side to side, but that was all. The sudden turn of events
overwhelmed him as he realized the implications. He was about to die. Unless somehow the Right Arm
got to him immediately, he was going to die.
Janson stepped into his view. Nodding approvingly, the Rat Man patted the doctor on the shoulder.
“Get it done.” Then he turned and disappeared; Thomas could hear someone shouting in the hallway
before the door closed.
“I just need to run a few tests,” Dr. Christensen explained. “Then we’ll get you into the operating
room.” He turned to fiddle with some instruments behind him.
It felt like the man spoke to him from a hundred miles away. Thomas lay helpless, his mind spinning as
the doctor took blood, measured his skull. The man worked in silence, barely blinking. But the beads of
sweat on his forehead showed that he was racing against who-knew-what. Did he have an hour to get this
done? Several hours?
Thomas closed his eyes. He wondered if the weapons-disabling device had done its job. Wondered if
anyone would find him. Then he realized, did he even want them to? Was it really possible that WICKED
almost had a cure? He forced himself to breathe evenly, focus on trying to move his limbs. But nothing
happened.
The doctor suddenly straightened and grinned at Thomas. “I believe we’re ready. We’ll wheel you to
the operating room now.”
The man walked through the door and Thomas’s gurney was pushed into the hallway. Unable to move,
he lay staring up at the lights in the ceiling flashing by as he rolled down the corridor. He finally had to
close his eyes.
They’d put him to sleep. The world would fade. And he’d be dead.
He snapped his eyes open again. Closed them. His heart pounded; his hands grew sweaty and he
realized he was gripping the sheets on the gurney in two balled fists. Movement was coming back, slowly.
Eyes open again. The lights zooming by. Another turn, then another. Despair threatened to squeeze the life
out of Thomas before the doctors could do it.
“I …,” he started to say, but nothing else came out.
“What?” Christensen asked, peering down at him.
Thomas struggled to speak, but before he could force any words out a thunderous boom rattled the
hallway and the doctor tripped, his weight pushing the gurney forward as he scrambled to stop himself
from falling. The bed shot to the right and crashed into the wall, then rebounded and spun until it hit the
other side. Thomas tried to move, but he was still paralyzed, helpless. He thought of Chuck and Newt, and
a sadness like none he’d ever known seized his heart.
Someone screamed from the direction of the explosion. Shouts followed; then everything grew silent
again, and the doctor was up on his feet, hurrying to the gurney, straightening it out, pushing it again,
banging through a set of swinging doors. A host of people dressed in scrubs awaited them in a white
operating room.
Christensen started barking orders. “We have to hurry! Everyone, get to your places. Lisa, get him fully
sedated. Now!”
A short lady responded. “We haven’t done all the prep—”
“It doesn’t matter! As far as we know the whole building’s gonna burn down.”
He placed the gurney next to an operating table; several sets of hands were lifting Thomas and moving
him over before the gurney even came to a complete stop. He settled on his back, strained to take in the
beehive buzz of doctors and nurses, at least nine or ten of them. He felt a prick in his arm, glanced down
to see the short lady inserting an IV into his vein. All the while the only movement he could manage was
in his hands.
Lights were placed in position just above him. Other things were stuck into his body in various places;
monitors started beeping; there was the hum of a machine; people talking over other people; the room was
filled with the scurry of movement, like an orchestrated dance.
And the lights, so bright. The room spinning, though he lay perfectly still. The rising terror of what they
were doing to him. Knowing it was ending, right here, right now.
“I hope it works,” he finally managed to get out.
A few seconds later, the drugs finally took him and it all went away
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