The next day I’m brought down again in the same fashion for more tests, where I’m poked many times with several different syringes, all taking fluids, but none injecting any. I’ve not eaten in two days and according to the physician my nutrition levels are low, so he orders Artemis to provide me several meals a day. I have to eat in my room, leaving my tray at the foot of my bed when I’m finished. On my fourth day of confinement, my guards bring me down again to be examined. This time the physician doesn’t hand me a gown. The instruments have been cleared from their metal trays, and only the lounge chair remains undisturbed. My restraints are removed and the guards leave as I sit on the chair, dreading what is planned for today.
“Meg, I need to look at your arm.”
I grip my right arm with my left, afraid of what his reaction might be.
“Meg, I need you to trust me. Please.”
His soft gray eyes are disarming.
I remove the Velcro straps and slide down the covering, laying it beside me. He slides his glasses closer to his eyes as they have slipped down, takes my arm gently in his hands, and begins to examine the wound. He concentrates mainly on the Quantum Stream running the length of my arm before scrutinizing the two tiny holes in my palm, followed by a look at the exit wound on my back. He walks over to one of the cabinets, opens a drawer, and removes a tiny syringe. Lifting my arm, he rests my palm against his shoulder. He takes the needle and attempts to insert it into the stream, which causes my arm to tingle, becoming extremely hot at the intrusion. The needle disintegrates and the plastic casing of the syringe melts in his hands. He goes over to the sink to wash the residue off while I secure the sleeve back on my arm.
“I should’ve expected that kind of reaction,” he says as he returns, taking a seat next to me on the chair. “So, how do you like it here?”
“How do you think? I hate it. I can’t stand being confined to that room.”
He is about to respond when there is a knock at the door. He gets up and lets Artemis into the room, shaking the man’s hand as he enters.
“So,” Artemis begins, clapping his hands together, “how is our little warrior?”
I open my mouth to express my displeasure at the situation, but the physician quickly waves me down by placing his hand on my shoulder.
“She needs exercise, Artemis, lots of running. I suggest you let her wander the property, hike some of the trails. This isolation is not good for her.”
“Okay,” he says, nodding his head slightly, “I’ll let her, on one condition. She wears a monitoring ring around both wrists.”
The physician looks at me with a pleading expression.
“Fine,” I reply, gritting my teeth.
“Now, about her arm,” Artemis begins, walking over to me, picking up my arm as if to examine it.
“It’s severely injured. No amount of Quarum could restore it, as the injury is too old. It must have happened as a child.”
Artemis meditates a few moments with this news then summons the guards from the hallway into the room. Before I’m escorted out, I’m fitted with two thin black bracelets, one for each wrist. I’m warned not to wander past the boundary lines because if I do I will be brutally shocked, and locked away. Artemis does permit me to go up to my room and change my clothes before I go outside. I’m provided with a new pair of running shoes and socks, put my hair up into a ponytail, and leave the house.
After breakfast each morning, I spend most of my days jogging down hiking paths that lead up into the mountains. The air gets thinner the higher I go. I push farther up each day, looking to see where the property line ends, but the land seems to go on indefinitely. Besides running, I begin practicing climbing, first the trees, then the face of the mountain. I fall many times from small heights, but get right back up and continue. I also start to practice jumping from great distances, mainly from boulder to boulder at the base of the mountain.
At night the same dream haunts me. I can’t seem to move past the scene of my rescue from the inferno. The screaming from the children invades my thoughts. I’m beginning to think these nightmares are my memories slowly restoring themselves, allowing me a glimpse into the horror of my childhood.
I no longer cry each night, but have chosen to accept my fate, at least for the moment. Anger is my driving force, the device that is keeping me alive.
A month into my imprisonment I find a nice outlook to rest on. My afternoons are spent perched up high, over-looking the ranch below and out into the unknown. Several times I stay until nightfall so I can watch the stars come out. The temperature drops, but I stay until the moon is almost directly overhead. I’m not only sightseeing from my vantage point, but I’m also studying the layout of Artemis’ compound.
There is only one road in, and the
