Page 6 of Tracking the Alpha
“You’re a sick fuck.”
“I’d watch your mouth, Captain. Your fate lies in my hands.”
“What worse thing can you possibly do? You’ve already admitted this treatment might kill me.”
“It’s up to me whether or not you get a sedative during the protocol, which hurts by the way. A lot. Even the toughest have cried. Will you sob for your mother, Captain?”
“Can’t cry for something I never had,” was his dry reply.
“How about begging then? Ask me nicely, on your knees, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you have the drugs before we start.”
“Why don’t you suck my cock,” Barrett snarled because he wouldn’t abase himself for anyone.
“Very well then. Don’t say I didn’t offer,” Davidson retorted. Then, to someone obviously in the room with him, “Prepare Patient 73 for the first transfusion. Without the anesthetic. And be sure to record his screams so we can play them later to the other patients. It should make them more malleable when it’s their turn.”
The fucker wanted Barrett to break. Like hell. Barrett had been in tough spots before. Been a prisoner of terrorists for ten days and suffered beatings where he never said a word.
None of that prepared him for what Davidson had planned.
He never heard or smelled the gas that knocked him out. He regained consciousness strapped to a table. Arms, legs, torso, even head, restrained. A bright light above his face had him squinting. A jab at his bicep caused a twinge, not of pain but fear.
This really was happening, and he could do nothing to stop it. Do nothing but lie there as liquid fire poured into his veins.
Despite his vow to not give Davidson satisfaction, Barrett screamed. It couldn’t be helped when every nerve ending reacted painfully. He yodeled himself hoarse. Strained every muscle to no avail. He couldn’t escape the agony.
By the time the treatment ceased, he held on to consciousness only by a thin thread. Wrung out. Weak. Those who’d been present for his treatment—without a hint of compassion—didn’t bother drugging Barrett as they released him from the straps. They dumped him onto a gurney and wheeled him back to his cell, where they unceremoniously tilted him onto the floor and then left.
It took an eternity before he could control the movements of his spasming body. When he did get some command of his limbs, he crawled to the bucket of water and lapped at it like a dog. Humiliating and dehumanizing, but his parched mouth didn’t care. Pity his belly couldn’t keep it down. He threw up violently before passing out.
He woke in the same spot, body cramped and aching. Judging by the heat emanating from his flesh, he’d developed a fever. He couldn’t tell how long he writhed on the floor. He kept losing consciousness. Someone must have tended him during his incapacity, though, seeing as how his filthy puke-and-sweat-covered gown had been changed and his body cleaned. He also managed to expel an epic pee, indicating they’d hydrated him somehow, most likely by an IV, judging by the holes left behind in his arms.
The recovery proved onerous, but he survived. However, he’d no sooner recuperated from the first round of treatment than they took him in for the second. It proved just as agonizing; however, he rallied back to health slightly quicker. By the third bout, Barrett’s torturers resumed drugging him before returning him to his cell.
Whatever Davidson kept having him injected with no longer affected Barrett as badly. A good sign? Barrett had no way of knowing, but he counted it as a positive that he’d not died. Still, how many more transfusions would he be subjected to? And what of the others? Did they live? With his mind no longer as clouded by pain, Barrett resolved to find a way out of this nightmare place. But how? Escape seemed impossible. His concrete cell had only a single egress. The locked door. It opened only when he was unconscious.
He’d tried pretending to pass out to see if someone would enter. They did. However, they must have suspected he faked slumber since he ended up knocked out for real. The fuckers didn’t take chances and gassed him.
After the third treatment, he began waking in different locales such as the assessment chamber where Barrett became the rat in a cage forced to perform for watching doctors. And if he refused? ZAP!
Electrical current proved to be a compelling reason to run on the treadmill and do jumping jacks when commanded.
Other times he regained consciousness tethered head to toe. After all, they didn’t want him moving while they poked and prodded. They stole an ungodly amount of tissue samples. Drained vial after vial of his blood. Stimulated his cock with drugs and then used a suctioning silicone sleeve to force him to ejaculate—the most humiliating experience. They measured him constantly. Checked the growth of his hair and nails. Even checked his teeth and took molds of them.
After he’d recovered from treatment four, he opened his eyes to find himself staked outside under a full moon. His first time outside since capture. The fresh air had never smelled or tasted so good, but even better, he wasn’t alone. For the first time since his capture, he saw the others. Saw them looking gaunt and exhausted. Slater’s and Zendaya’s expressions angry. Gage’s and Takhi’s resigned. The others wouldn’t meet his gaze, their heads lolling as if they couldn’t hold them up.
They couldn’t speak. The ball gags in their mouths made that impossible. But at least they lived, meaning they still had hope.
A hope that diminished as time passed. On the next full moon, after treatment seven, Gage didn’t join the group staked outside. He returned for the next one, though, listless, mouth slack and drooling. No need for a gag since he appeared unresponsive. On the third full moon, Freya, Gage, and Slater were missing, and Barrett feared for them. A fear reflected in the eyes of those who remained.
If it weren’t for those monthly, full moon excursions, Barrett would have had no way of gauging the passage of time. No windows or clocks helped him count the hours and days. Not that it would have helped his sanity. He felt himself losing it. It didn’t help that no one ever spoke to him. The doctors never replied to anything he said. Never addressed him directly. Which he found odd, seeing as how, since treatment thirteen, they expected him to answer a questionnaire daily. Every day, he would assume around the same hour, a projection would appear in his cell. A series of questions to be specific. The replies were all of the yes-or-no variety.
A) Do you feel disconnected from your body?
More like from reality.
B) Did you dream while you slept?
No. And even if he did, he wouldn’t tell them.
