Donor: Part 9

Please see Parts 1-8 first. Thanks!

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“Again?” Michael stiffened. “You’ve been involved with the Donor program?”

Amanda shot to her feet across the den. Terrible suspicions burst into his frayed thoughts. That she knew someone who was familiar with the program was a hell of a coincidence.

Doc straightened. The many wrinkles crisscrossing his face took on new meaning, as badges of evil, not wisdom.

“To my everlasting regret, I was,” Doc said. He spoke soft, as though too much noise might cause an avalanche of emotion. “They liked to say, ‘Once in, always in.’”

“Still do,” Michael murmured.

Doc raised his brows. “You weren’t a Deadman or Lifer. You were going to blow the whistle.”

Amanda cocked her head slightly to the left. “How’d you know?”

Doc closed his eyes long enough to inhale and exhale. Thus steadied, he picked up a bottle of saline and a thick towel. He reached for the damaged arm, but Michael stopped him with his good hand.

“Answer her.”

“I will, as long as you allow me to treat your wounds.”

Michael looked to Amanda. She knew the man. So far, she’d shown sound judgment. When she nodded, Michael relented.

Doc held the towel under Michael’s arm with one hand. With the other, he poured room-temperature saline over the wound opening. White bone glistened through the ruptured flesh.

“I can tell. Always could. We called you types Whistlers. They used to kill them, but they found it far more useful to make examples of them. Fewer people tried to bail.” He pointed to the even rows of semi-healed patches. “You were in for a while, I’d say. Four years, at least.”

“Five.”

Doc nodded. “Whistlers get the worst of it. Collectors only take ‘safe’ samples, so they—you—live longer than other Donors. You suffer so others get the message. Brutal but effective.”

From the corner of his eye, Michael saw that Amanda had started her recorder. She kept it from Doc’s view but showed it long enough for Michael to notice. Clever.

“I was a research biologist. What was your role?” Michael asked. He tried to think like a reporter. Doc might be more willing to share without being reminded of Amanda’s job. She quietly retook her seat on Doc’s sofa.

“Collector,” Doc said. He avoided Michael’s eyes. “I loathed every minute of it. The very act contradicted my oath to harm no one. Over twenty years, and I never stepped away. Never defied them.” He finished cleaning the wound and applied a cool teal gel. “I was a coward, too frightened to do the right thing.”

Michael swallowed the revulsion that threatened to choke him.

“They’re powerful,” he said. Looking around the finely appointed den, he allowed himself a measure of leeway. “They’ve always paid well. Not a small incentive to stay aboard.”

Doc flinched. “I deserve that in spades. Yes, I’ve been paid quite handsomely. The price, however, has been steep. I was married once. After I learned what a monster I was to become, I did her a favor and left. Raising a family with this—thing on my conscience would have been unforgivable. Thank God we had no children together.”

Michael struggled for something to say. He looked to Amanda. She turned the recorder off and bent to stow it in the Go-Pak.

“Keep recording, Amanda,” Doc said. “Your grandfather would.”

Her cheeks turned red. Michael saw that her eyes were watery, and she blinked several times.

“All those time we visited you at the park.” She shook her head. “Were you telling him all this?” She looked up, met Doc’s gaze. “Were the chess games just a cover?”

Doc smiled as he picked up a cylindrical instrument with a hollow center.

“Now you’re getting it, although we really were friends. We met in college where I was in Pre-Med and he in journalism. Unfortunately, fate intervened before the story could get out.”

Amanda’s face went white. Michael could only speculate and decided to question her about it later, away from Doc.

Doc turned back to Michael. “This will feel strange. It’s something I invented. It’ll heal that humerus by causing it to knit at an accelerated rate.”

Michael leaned away. “Has it been tested?”

“It works.” Doc set it down and filled a syringe. “I need to numb the area first. For it to work, the bone has to be set into its proper position. Amanda, a hand please?”

“Uh… I d-don’t know,” she stammered.

“Just splint it,” Michael said. Doc seemed kindly, but Michael knew more than a few sadists among the Collectors.

“Son, I have been retired for over a decade. I’ve dedicated my time to developing technologies that may replace the Donor program. Perhaps I can make up for a fraction of my guilt.” He turned the device over, showing it to them. “This bone knitter is one of the first.”

“Do it,” Amanda said. She set the recorder on the desk and moved to Michael’s side. “What do you want me to do?”

“Hang on,” Michael said. “It’s my arm.”

“And it’s my ass you’re risking if you don’t get fixed up.”

She was right. He didn’t like it, but she was. He didn’t feel it prudent to point out she was already at risk. “Fine.”

Doc set the knitter down and picked up a syringe. It hissed as he injected the anesthetic. Amanda got a tight grip above the break as instructed. Doc clasped the elbow and lower arm.

“I’ll pull on the count of three,” he told them. “Michael, you may experience discomfort. The numbing agent won’t penetrate all the way.”

Michael clenched his jaw. Pain was a familiar enemy.

“One. Two. Three!”

The sudden crack led to a shock wave that raced between his hand and shoulder, making him scream. Everything dimmed until he could breathe again. Someone pressed a cool, wet cloth to his forehead, cheeks, then neck.

“It’s over,” Amanda said. “The bone’s reset. I’m so, so sorry I ran into you.”

Doc cleared his throat. Michael wanted to strangle the man but lacked anything resembling the strength.

“The knitter must be applied immediately. Amanda, dear, keep your hold on him.” Doc peered into Michael’s face. “As I said, this will feel rather strange. The rapid healing process will be uncomfortable, and you’ll get quite hungry. I’ll bring some food as soon as you feel ready to eat.”

“Define ‘strange,’” Michael whispered. His voice was all but lost to exhaustion and injury. If only the nightmare would end with Michael waking to his apartment on a nice day. No special programs. No secret prisons. No Donations…

“I can’t say. I haven’t had a broken bone since inventing it.” He pulled at the sides of the cylinder, expanding it to wider than Michael’s fist. “Be sure to describe the sensation when you’re done. This will be valuable to further development.”

That did not sound good, but Doc and Amanda had him essentially pinned down. “Great.”

Doc adjusted the device to fit snugly over the break. It fit just above the open wound where the bone had pushed through. He waved Amanda off as he fussed over a small panel.

“Got it. It should start working in a few seconds.”

The anesthetic chose that moment to wear off. Short-acting stuff, that. What little pain it blocked surged back. Then the knitter kicked in.

Strange was a greater euphemism than Doc’s use of “discomfort.” Searing lances of… of… something shot through his bruised skin and to the various tissues below. Heat intensified at the humerus, where the two halves of the break surged to life.

Pain greater than the worst he’d ever felt suddenly enveloped Michael. Rational thought evaporated.

Michael blacked out.

… to be continued