James Axler – Stoneface

The room was occupied by a white-coated man. He had a kindly, smiling face, and he appeared to have been expecting them. He looked to be about Doc’s age, and he asked Ryan to strip. He hesitated, and Doug pushed the shotgun against his spine. The beetle hovered before the open doorway.

Ryan took off his clothes, standing naked and shivering. His bones felt bruised, his flesh numb, his head light. The man examined him closely, without voicing any curiosity about his wounds or his old scars. Removing Ryan’s eyepatch, he peered closely at the puckered socket, but he didn’t touch it. With remarkably gentle fingers, he probed each injury carefully, tsk-tsking at the stitches on his shoulder blade. With a tiny pair of scissors he snipped them and removed them. While he endured the pain and the cold, Ryan looked around the room and saw very little except for an enclosed shower-like stall that was shaped like a bullet. The top was a translucent semipointed dome.

The man said, “You are ready for the medisterile unit, Mr. Cawdor. Would you like me to investigate the availability of a new eye for you?”

Ryan couldn’t disguise his surprise, or even his eager interest. “A new eye? You can give me a new eye?”

Frowning, the doctor said, “Why, of course. I’ll have to see if there’s one that we can match with the color of your left eye, but it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Never mind,” Doug said sharply. “The Commander wants to see him PDQ. New eye, my ass.”

The doctor sneered at Doug, curling his lip in disdain, and then directed Ryan to enter the bullet-shaped stall. The walls were tiled, and when the door was shut behind him, hissing sprays of warm disinfectant jetted from tiny nozzles on all sides. It was the first time in hours Ryan hadn’t been cold, so he luxuriated in the welcomed heat. The fine streams of fluid scoured his body from the chin down, the churning spray of atomized liquid penetrating every pore, every cut, every wound.

Ryan felt his fatigue ebbing, as well as the pain. He assumed there was some sort of analgesic mixed in with the spray, and perhaps even a mood elevator, for his spirit lightened the longer he stayed under the streams. It was hard to believe he’d ever been hurt, considering the euphoric feeling rising within him.

The jets cut off and warm air whipped around him, all but making him break into a sweat. The heat dried him, and the doctor opened the door of the stall. Stepping out into the cold room was a distinct shock.

His teeth chattering, Ryan allowed the white-coated man to use an aerosol-can spray on his bullet and knife wounds. Wherever the spray touched, a film like a thin skin formed, adhering to his body.

“This liquid bandage contains nutrients and antibiotics and will nip any infection, Mr. Cawdor. It’s composition is very similar to real flesh, and your body will absorb it as your injuries heal.”

“Is that what you guys are made of?” Ryan asked. “Skin from a can?”

“Of course not! Our technique is far more sophisticated, far more”

“That’s enough,” Doug interrupted coldly. “Get dressed, Cawdor.”

Ryan did as he was told, noting that his knife and sheath had been removed from the belt. At least the transceiver was still tucked safely in his coat’s inner pocket, and his weighted scarf hadn’t been tampered with. As he replaced his eye patch, he asked, “Now what?”

Doug opened his mouth to reply, then cocked his head slightly, as though he were listening to whispered instructions. He pressed a spot at the base of his throat, just beneath his larynx, and said, “Acknowledged.”

Ryan eyed him suspiciously, wondering if he was responding to ghostly voices only he could hear. “You didn’t answer my question, Doug.”

Doug grinned and squeezed the stock of the shotgun affectionately. “Now, despite your combat acumen, we’ll find out if you can take it as well as you dish it up.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The city trembled with violencegunfire, screams and shouted profanities. The hue and cry passed Mildred where she lay in the shadow of the National Gallery of Arts building.