IGNATIUS The Colors of Rage

Chapter 8 a Cured

The rocking and swaying were the first things he felt again after the bullets dislodged themselves from his brain, lungs, and heart. The virus was no joke. It could save anyone from death.

He found himself laid on the floor of a dark box truck. Freezing metal vibrated against his face, rumbling and moving up and down, sometimes bouncing his head. The air smelled like raw blood, fresh gunpowder, and fresh leaves. The fresh leaf scent was breezing through the c***k in the back door. He could hear a slow clutter of weak heartbeats, struggling amongst two others that were still strong. He wasn’t alone, but he couldn’t see anything but the dirty floor in front of his face. Barely, he found the strength to lift his gaze upward, and as he did so, an insuppressible cough spewed a wad of coagulated blood out from his mouth.

With genuine disgust, one of the two guards howled from behind his mask, “ah! Nasty!” 

A muffled laugh rolled out of the other guard’s mask. “Come on, put him back to it.” 

A pig’s grunt was the last thing that Iggy heard before another bullet shattered his freshly healed skull. Ringing noises took over. He couldn’t feel his body, the temperature, or the wind anymore. He couldn’t smell the strange combination of fresh leaves and metal, either. His vision vanished again, and he slipped back into the emptiness. 

Next thing he knew, he was far from home and strapped against a plank, standing straight up and back, in a place composed of only clean white walls and blinding fluorescent lights. He tried to swallow, but his jaw was locked open and facing the ceiling above.

A tense pulling of tightness in his jaws; the sizzling dry heat blistering his nose, mouth, and throat; the shuddering and splicing of his deteriorating stomach; the heaviness in every inch of his body; the pin needle scratching against his bare left forearm; tight straps squeezing each major joint in his arms and legs, across his chest, waist, neck and head. 

Above all, he was so thirsty.

Yet, over-all memoryless. 

Except for Nansen. He remembered what happened to Nansen… vaguely.

There were two other people in the room with him, conversing quietly around him. Although the man and woman hovered over him, they seemed to be unconcerned with him all at once. The man couldn’t have been much older than forty, yet his everyday expressions were deeply engraved into his skin, forever. The wrinkles were most concentrated in the middle of his bulbous forehead from working with the frontal lobe of his brain most often. He was tall, too. His upper back hunched forward in a bow, creating a hump in the back of his white lab coat. There hung a photo badge from the lapel of his jacket that said, Doctor Jim Branching, B Lab with his photograph dead center. 

Jim turned away from Iggy and retrieved a cotton swab on a long stick from the nearby side table. He pinched the fleshy part of Iggy’s cheek outward, then plunged the cotton swab into the side of Iggy’s mouth. He danced the swab back and forth between Iggy’s teeth and cheek, but it was sticking to him rather than collecting a sample of saliva. 

As Jim pulled back the cotton swab their eyes met for the first time. His eyes were a warm chocolate brown color that was dull in shade, matching his clean cut brown hair. His face was long and narrow, and his eyes were a lot higher than his cheek bones, allowing more room for his wide mouth.

    Jim smiled, exposing a mouth full of crooked teeth with years of coffee stains in between. His voice was calm and quiet, yet still loud in such a silent atmosphere. “There’s not enough saliva to take a sample,” he chuckled and looked over his shoulder at his partner. “Maria…”

Maria stood in the glow of a portable computer station monitor, reading the rhythm of Iggy’s heart and blood pressure, as well as other windows open on the screen with very small detailed information. She was small statured, less than five feet tall and one hundred pounds. Her frizzy brown hair was cut about an inch from the top of her shoulders and tucked under a hairnet.

With her hands still planted on the keyboard, she looked over her shoulder at Jim. She had a short round face. Dark circles loomed under her eyes so much so that they could have been genetic, however her thick rimmed glasses hid them well. She wore a similar oversized white jacket with a photo badge, too. Maria Johnson, B Lab Intern. Her voice was dehydrated and tired, and her stomach rumbled so obnoxiously that it was the loudest noise in the small observation room. “Yes, Jim.”

“Please make a note that subject IF17 has a severe case of central heterochromia.” Her fingers crossed the keyboard. “Maria…” Her shoulders dropped and her head slowly spun around to look at him again. Once Jim stood straight, she needed to look up to meet his gaze even with the distance between them. “Do you know the significance of that?” 

Out of her pocket, she magically pulled out a folded up bundle of papers and a pen. Her hand held the pen, ready to begin note taking. She nodded, “go on.”

“This will be on your test, surely. Central heterochromia is the multi-coloration of the eye in which is found in subjects who display strong responses to thirst.” Jim swung his head. “Come look.” 

She walked away from the computer and joined his side. Together, they leant in on either side and studied Iggy’s eyes, however the bright lights caused him to squint and left little to see. “Oh, why bother…” she yawned. “Can’t see much like this.” 

“Watch and learn,” Jim said confidently, as he reached for a side table and found the first thing he could with the color red on it. It was a card with the name Andy McLaren at 95 Hinderhurst. “This might be just enough to get him to look long enough for you to see. Take note of the yellow, green, and blue. And tell me if you have ever seen such eyes before.” He drew Iggy's eyelid up with his thumb while his other hand held the card in Iggy’s line of vision.