The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [44]
“We constantly monitor our patients and regularly flush their systems free of toxins. Besides, our setup, as you call it, may be similar, but it is much more sophisticated and expensive.”
“How so?”
“The fluid temperature is critical for keeping a subject in ideal condition throughout hibernation. At commercial stations like Nyx, we use individual tanks to suspend the patients. Clearly, in a communal tank, with scores of individuals, the temperature is a compromise, an average. Shortages can be overcome only by altering the blood’s chemistry with drugs. Don’t forget renal functions are also down. Over time, impurities build up. At Nyx, we survey hematology, electrolytes, liver enzymes, nitrogen elements, protein, lipids, ratios, differentials, you name it. When counts reach a critical level, we dialyze the patients. You know, scrub their blood.”
“I know a little about dialysis.”
“How come? I thought you were a lawyer.”
“My aunt suffered a kidney failure. She went to a clinic three times a week to be hooked for hours to a machine. Sometimes I would keep her company.”
“Okay, then. Electrolytes build up and osmotic pressure goes wild, with off-the-chart levels of basophilic activity.”
“What’s that?”
“A white cell, which in turn triggers releases of histamine, heparin, and serotonin—the markers of allergic reactions.”
“You mean people in hibernation develop allergies?”
“Right. Let’s face it, the body rebels against any unnatural state, and hibernation is the most unnatural of them all for a human.” He paused and his eyes twinkled. “I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t expect your charge to be in such bad shape. You didn’t know?”
“None of us did.”
Floyd pursed his lips.
Laurel glanced toward Raul. He was staring at them and had obviously been following their exchange. His mind would be reeling with the realization that, had Shepherd and his master known that Russo was a barely living corpse, they would have never entertained such a complex operation. And Bastien would be alive. She ran a finger under the ragged edge of the lead collar.
Floyd nodded. “I’ll remove the transmitters as soon as we have a thirty-minute window.”
“Thank you.” She closed her eyes and leaned back until her head rested against the damp concrete.
After a few minutes, they got to their feet and followed the red line on the computer screen. Crossing the main sewage tunnel, they entered the narrow passage. Laurel, marching point, could hear the men’s shoulders scraping against the smooth concrete walls. The air changed. Hot wafts beat down the tube at intervals. After slow progress through a brick corridor strung crazily with obsolete electric wires and plodding through a foot-deep sour-smelling mud, they stumbled across a threshold and the passage opened into a circular chamber pierced by several openings. Laurel stood aside while the rest of the group trooped in. She glanced toward Raul and froze. “Your neck!”
Raul lowered the stretcher, his face a mask of confusion. Then his hand flew to his bare neck. He swore, pivoted on his heel, and charged out of the chamber into the corridor they had just left.
Lukas’s lips moved as if in prayer. Laurel bunched her fists as heavy thumps echoed from the passageway at their back. She glanced around at walls covered with fungi like misshapen tumors. The stone looked diseased in the stale atmosphere. Then Raul burst into the chamber, his hand holding the piece of lead apron, now dripping gunk, around his neck.
“How long?” Lukas asked.
Floyd rummaged in his bag, drew out a roll of adhesive tape, and secured Raul’s strip with a couple of extra turns. “A couple of minutes at most. He had it on when we entered that narrow passage.”
Laurel glanced at her watch—almost one-thirty—and turned to Lukas. “Can they locate us?”
He shrugged. “I doubt it. We’re deep underground, but I don’t know how these fucking things work.”
“We better get going.” Laurel pointed to one of the openings—an entrance that had formerly been closed by a grating of which nothing but the hinges remained.
Ten minutes