Nathan spent two solid weeks in Nabaclin's holding facility. In her sterile white room, she had a television with cable, a soft bed, and a little closet that served as a bathroom. She had gotten very good at ignoring the big observation window. The room was small and safe and quiet and yes, maybe that small, safe, quietness was beginning to drive her insane, but it was better than the alternative.

Scientists in HAZMAT suits came to check on her every day, taking skin and blood samples, checking vitals, and doing basic physicals. They hardly spoke, save to answer questions or give instructions, and then they were curt, never idle with chitchat.

Nathan asked about Sandra. Nate had been separated from her by masked men the moment they’d gotten out of the chopper. Her faceless doctors assured all went well, but she was unnerved by the lack of word from her. 

On the fourteenth day, just as she had begun to imagine she could actually feel her flabby flesh sloughing from the bone, Roger Stalwart entered the room. Though he wore only a basic surgical mask, he was flanked by two men in HAZMATs, and a similarly masked nurse. The last of these carried a suitcase in her delicate, gloved hands.

Nathan started to stand, but the tall, fair-skinned man gestured her back down. “Please do not rise on account of me, Nathan,” said Roger, his odd, ice blue eyes smiling where his lips could not. “This is my fault after all,” he continued, very professionally. “I do hope you accept my apology.”

Uncertain, Nathan eased back in the room's only chair and nodded. “Of course. No problem.” But in the back of her mind, she wondered about the number of people. All things considered, it seemed like a lot. Why so many just to administer a dose?

“We think this may at least lessen the effects,” explained Roger as the nurse opened and proffered the suitcase. Roger selected a syringe and lifted it to the light. Tapping the side, he applied a little pressure to the plunger to release the air.

“It's nice of you to come down here yourself, sir,” replied Nathan, smiling with barely contained relief as the man took hold of her veiny wrist. The needle dipped beneath skin. The plunger pressed down.  “I really appreciate you taking the time to...” 

The words turned to mush in her mouth. At first, she thought the sight of the puncture wound was making her dizzy (sometimes she had a weak constitution in regard to needles) but as the heaviness in her head continued to grow, she began to fear a negative reaction to the serum.

“Um, Roger,” she murmured, blundering on her feet as the needle slid free. One of the scientists stepped forward and caught her elbow before she could hit the floor. “I don't feel... I...”

“Our engineers predicted that you may feel a slight drowsiness,” assured Roger, but as he did so, he made a curt gesture to the man who held her and the gloved grip turned tight. At once, the other scientist arrived and seized her free arm.

The hard edges and lines that made the world melted. Roger leaned close, his face a mesh of peach and white with shocking blurbs of blue where eyes should have been. “There now. You just relax. We will take care of everything.”

Holding her, one at either elbow, they forced Nate forward. Her bare toes curled against the tile as, feebly, she attempted to brace. 

But they were much stronger and lifted her off her feet.

Twisting and turning like a slow drowning swimmer, she tried to track her surroundings. Everything happened so fast. One moment, she was in the white holding room, the next a gray corridor with walls lined by wide observation windows.

With a heavy tongue, she tried to ask who they observed. How many people were here? And why? But by the time her reeling mind remembered how to make words, they were sweeping out of the hall and into a dark, cluttered backroom.

Here, they approached a platform with a set of stairs. The two guards picked her up and put her there, facing away from the door she'd come in and toward a thick, red curtain. The polished platform felt cool on her soles.

Roger climbed the stairs of his own accord, loafers making barely a whisper.

“What?” Nathan tried to ask a question, tried to understand, but then the curtains whooshed open. She stood in a pool of brilliant limelight with the faces of two dozen seated people staring in her direction. They were situated around tables laid with ceramic plates and silver dining implements. 

Feeling her stomach roll with sluggish understanding, she tried to belt from the stage, but Roger caught the scruff of her shirt with one hand, pulling back as her feet flew out from under her and throwing her, sprawling, onto a cutting table.

Dazed, vision swimming, head pounding, she choked a soft “Why?”

Tsking, Roger selected a heavy cleaver from his suitcase while the two guards strapped Nathan down. “The serum affected you much more quickly than last year’s dinner. Were you using more than directed, perhaps?”

Nathan’s thoughts swam through thick waves of lethargy. Her mouth flapped like that of a fish out of water. This couldn't be real. The dozens of masked staring faces, the tall man wielding the great knife, the bands around her wrists. This was a dream. A horrible, lucid dream.

Roger seemed to take her response as a “no.” He shrugged while the nurse draped a white smock over his finely tailored pinstripe suit. “How strange. I was hoping to know, so that we could avoid the problem with future meals. You gave us quite a scare, coming into your condition so far ahead of time and running off into the night before we could contain you. I mean, I actually had to move the date of the annual board meeting forward. Because we were uncertain how it might continue to alter your chemical makeup. You may have started to fall apart any moment, which would have completely upset our arrangements, not to mention spoiled the texture and flavor.”

His long shadow fell over Nate, hard angles made thicker and darker by the posterior spotlight. As he bent forward with the butcher's knife held at the ready, Nathan suddenly remembered how to scream, but even as she unleashed a wail of utter anguish, those icy blue eyes never wavered. In fact, they seemed to brighten. 

He ripped off his mask, giving her a firsthand look at his horrible smiling face. One by one the others began to tear off theirs as well. 

“Mr. Stalwart!” she began to plead.

“I already told you, call me Roger. And don’t bother making a fuss. At this point, it would be awfully rude to change what was on the menu. After all, it’s traditional.”

THE END