The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [120]
“Hard to say. He will need rehabilitation. Despite the computer-controlled muscle exercising, there’s notable withering. With proper treatment, two to three months.”
“Er …” Tyler rested his beer on a side table. “I recall you mentioning some people could walk straight out of hibernation, something to do with the squirrels’ mechanism …”
Laurel nodded, inwardly cringing at the added difficulty. If they had to move, Russo would have to be carried.
Floyd jerked his head toward Tyler. The half-empty can crumpled in his fist. “When I asked how long the subject had been down, you mumbled, ‘A few years.’ No!” He stood and towered over Tyler, stilling his retort with an outstretched hand, beer trickling over his fingers and onto the floor. “I’ve had enough bullshit. Nobody said I would have to revive a wasted shadow while being hunted by half the country. That man,” he pointed in the direction of the corridor, “is public enemy number one for someone powerful and ruthless. We’re fucked. I mean, really fucked. A half-dead man, broadcasting sensors, and a bunch of amateurs. What else have you forgotten to mention?” By now Floyd was yelling.
On the TV set, the thief neared the window and reached for a black cord, intent on rappelling to salvation. Then the picture went blank, and everybody froze. After a few seconds, a field of blue filled the screen, soon fading to zoom in on a taciturn-looking newscaster holding a sheaf of papers.
The man glanced to his right before reaching a hand to his necktie. “Three days ago, on the evening of September twenty-first, several convicts escaped the Washington, D.C., suspension facility, aided by the terrorist organization responsible for the attempt on the Villiard power station. All security forces, the police, and the army have been placed on highest alert. DHS director Ms. Odelle Marino has recorded a press conference to be transmitted at eight P.M. Eastern Standard Time to update the nation and the media of the measures and progress of the investigation.”
After a long discussion trying to speculate what the Department of Homeland Security mavens would have to say, they gathered before the TV set a few minutes before the scheduled press conference. The atmosphere was tense and gloomy. With the nation’s full security forces gunning for them, the rules of the game had changed for the worse.
Lukas leaned on the door frame, also intent on the screen, but he turned often toward the faint beeps from Russo’s cardiac monitors.
On the television screen, the scene shifted to a room crammed with reporters. After a short wait, two women entered from the right and stepped over to twin lecterns. The camera zoomed in on a tall, distinguished-looking woman in a smart gray suit. A caption scrolled underneath in bold yellow characters: Odelle Marino, Director of the DHS.
“As disclosed earlier,” she started without preamble after adjusting a pair of gold-framed reading glasses, “several convicts have escaped the Washington, D.C., suspension facility. The breakout was contrived by a terrorist organization led by an unknown leader calling himself the Scourge of God, and it was aided by members of the facility’s personnel. These terrorists were also responsible for the attack on the Villiard nuclear power station. All security forces, the police, and the army are following several leads, and we are confident the fugitives will be captured shortly.” She slid her glasses toward the tip of her nose and peered at a sea of raised arms as if noticing them for the first time. After a pause, she pointed an outstretched finger to a lanky young man.
“Pete Robertson, Washington Post. Why was the breakout not announced earlier?”
Odelle smiled, as if the question pleased her. “Due to the breakout’s extraordinary nature, it was decided to keep the matter confidential until a full assessment gave us a clearer picture of the dangers involved.” She jabbed a finger toward a nerdy-looking woman fumbling with pencil and pad. Obviously, recording equipment had been banned.
“Cornelia Schaffer, New York