He could feel everything.

Everything.

It was like going into a drug induced hallucination where one connected to the universe in naive pseudo harmony and understanding after a couple of tokes of Lace or perhaps a few E’s — only worse. He could feel valves and sphincters and all kinds of muscles opening and closing, squeezing and relaxing. He felt a rush as blood oxygenated, only to cool and sour as it travelled through his arteries. He could almost taste the food and waste in his upper and lower colons. The giddy high of chemical breakdown and the creation of fuel — the entropy as cells degraded — he was connected to every part of his body in a way which left very little to the imagination. The overwhelming sensations threatened to shatter his already fragile mind. Connor didn’t so much as sleep as lay paralysed under the sheer volume of information streaming through his brain. A small part of him fought, slavering and wild at the onslaught, knocking the data down and squashing it. He swam outward in mental strokes, a desperate attempt to leave his connection to the physical. Inch by inch he shut down, reverting to normal. At long last he rested, his mind and body both relaxing in true sleep.

He awoke to shouting and the sounds of frantic footfalls in the corridor outside. The posted soldier had aimed his rifle at the door until a brief radio conversation allayed his concern. Since then Connor had lain on the bed, mildly disgusted with the sensation of his finger nails and hair growing at glacial speed. The nurses had stopped coming. Perhaps they were afraid to see him. He would be, if the tables were reversed.

Connor lifted his healed arm, holding his hand above him as he twisted and flexed each muscle and joint. He was emotionally numb after the ordeal, too tired to feel anything of the wonder/revulsion rollercoaster he had ridden hours before. There was only one more thing to take care of.

He could feel the things in the I.V line. There were two — one in the plasma, the other in the blood. He couldn’t see them from his position on the bed but he instinctively knew where they were and how far they stretched as you would know where your own hands were in the dark. He wanted them gone. They were a reminder of his abnormalities. Proof positive he was a freak. They were also surplus to requirement now that his arm was fully healed. If he could cut them off, he would.

He reached over and tugged at the bandages holding the I.V needle in place. With his finger nails he peeled the corner of the opaque plastic bandage up to expose the needle. He saw it. A lump had grown out of his skin, trailing a crimson coloured tendril which had pierced the I.V tubing. Did he dare pull it out? Rip it off?

He heard the soldier’s radio squawk. He had almost forgotten the man was in the room with him.

“I understand. Send them in.”

The soldier resettled into place, hands resting on the rifle hanging from his shoulder.

Connor pressed the bandage back down and pretended to sleep. He didn’t feel like seeing anyone at the moment unless it was his mom. The door opened and someone shuffled in with the awkward, heavy footsteps of a bio suit. The zipper on the plastic dome opened. Connor kept his eyes closed.

“Mr Hill?”

He stayed still.

“Mr Hill?”

Perhaps they’d go away if he started snoring?

“He’s awake. He was fidgeting about just before,” said the soldier.

“Ah… Thank you, guardsman.”

The newcomer walked around his bed to inspect his miraculously healed arm. “Remarkable,” she whispered. “Did you see it happen?” she asked loudly.

“Not me,” replied the soldier. “I’ve just rotated on.”

“Hard to believe it myself… But here is the proof. Incredible. The photos were quite graphic.”

Connor waited. His breathing shallow, his eye lids twitching as he pretended to sleep.

“Please look at me, Mr Hill.”

He sighed and cracked an eye open. “What do you want?”

A middle aged woman smiled back at him from with the safety of her bio-hazard suit. “My name is Doctor Edwards. I am an agent of the Centre for Disease Control and Prevention. I’d like to talk to you, if I may.”

The penny dropped. This was what his mother feared. Connor gave her a brief nod.

Edwards’ smile broadened. “I understand you are concerned about what is happening to you. I am here to assure you that everything will be fine.”

Connor frowned back at her. “Growing an arm is fine? Healing a chest wound is just dandy?”

Edwards chuckled and upped her forced smile. “It’s nothing that our scientists won’t be able to figure out. We’ll have you back to normal in no time.”

I think the lady doth protest too much…

“What will happen to me now?”

Edwards walked around the edge of bed, refusing to look Connor in the eye. “We need to transport you to a more secure facility.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes to determine what is wrong with you,” replied Edwards.

Connor growled and threw his head back against the pillow. “When am I leaving? Will I see my mother before I go?”

Edwards made an odd noise, as though something uncomfortable stuck in her throat. “We must leave as soon as possible, I’m afraid. Your mother had to go home and attend to personal matters.”

Connor propped himself up. “She left?”

Edwards busied herself by looking at his chart. Anywhere but at him. “Yes. She has left the building.”

Connor sighed deeply and lay down. “Okay.”

“You seem to have made a full recovery, Mr Hill. All of your vitals are showing normal,” said Edwards, filling in the silence. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” replied Connor.

“Fine? That’s all?” pressed Edwards.

“I feel like a freak. Does that make you happy?” shot Connor.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Hill. Your wounds feel better? No abnormalities?”

Connor thought it best to keep the mysterious tendrils a secret for now. He hoped he could keep the hesitation from his voice. “Everything is normal.”

Edwards looked at him askance, waiting for more. Finally she spoke. “Do you mind if I draw some blood samples?”

“Do your worst,” replied Connor.

Edwards produced a tray with needles, empty vials, a stretchy cord and assorted sterilising equipment. She wiped his right arm down with something cold. The cord slipped over his bicep. She tightened the strap. He felt the pressure build in his arm.

Of course she would take blood from that arm… thought Connor.

The needle pinched, eliciting a wince from Connor despite the levels of pain he had recently endured. He looked away as Edwards released the strap and drew several vials of blood. She gently removed the needle and wiped the wound with a piece of cotton wool. She peered closer, watching the small pinprick from the needle disappear in an instant, the skin healing.

“Hmmm…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Edwards placed the blood samples into a plastic bag, Connor’s name hand written on its front.

“When can I get out of this handcuff?” asked Connor.

“Probably at the next facility.”

“Why? I’m not a criminal,” protested Connor.

“No. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t dangerous,” replied Edwards. “Imagine if your condition was contagious?”

“And give everybody super healing powers?” scoffed Connor. “What a danger…”

Edwards made to say something then paused. “I am done here. The ambulance is preparing to move as we speak. I must see to my fellow agents.”

Edwards left carrying the samples, giving the guardsman a friendly nod before departing.

Connor stared at the ceiling, fighting back a wave of depression. This was it. He’d be thrown into some lab and studied - a shitty end to this shitty nightmare. He had to get rid of the tendrils before they moved him. The less evidence they had the better. Maybe he could even fake being normal…

He laughed. The guard shuffled at the noise. Connor lost his smile. He reached his free hand over to the I.V line in his left forearm and gave it a cautious tug.

It was a mistake.

The pain was like fire through his nerves, shooting waves up and down his arm.

“What the fuck are you doing?” yelled the guard. “Stop that!”

Connor realised he was whimpering and let go of the line. “Sorry,” he panted.

“Don’t fuck around with that. You’re not a doctor.”

“Okay. Okay,” said Connor, finding his breath.

Too painful to remove…

He wondered if he could control the tendrils.

Perhaps he could pull them in or absorb them somehow? What were the limits of his new- found ability after all? The disease or virus had opened a door for him. His understanding of the workings of his body were increasing. If he could force his arm to heal, why couldn’t he force his other arm to remove the alien growths.

Connor drew inward, exploring and probing the two tendrils at the points where they left his arm, using his other arm as a comparison. He could feel that micro-fibre like tissue had been grown out of a part that tapped into an existing vein, supported by an array of specifically grown muscles to help push further into the I.V line. This tendril’s sole purpose was to deliver as much fluid as it could find. Connor could feel it was very sensitive, almost an open nerve. Information streaked down the nerves like electricity, so encrypted or esoteric that he couldn’t understand it. Connor conducted an experiment. With his right hand he pinched the I.V line while in his meditative state. watching the nerves operate. A burst of information travelled down the tendril, up to his brain and back, faster than he could determine. Pain lanced down his arm to the point where he was pinching the tendril. He kept squeezing, turning his attention to the section of his brain which was sending the pain signals. It was a primitive section of a complex machine, dealing in absolutes of black and white. 1XSIGNAL = PAIN / 0XSIGNAL = NO PAIN. He couldn’t simply switch it off, but he could dial it back.

Next, Connor sought for a way to retract the tendril. He activated the tiny, specific muscles created to push the tendril further out, taking note on the sequence they operated in. He then contracted those muscles in reverse, prompting the tendril to crawl backwards. It filled his arm, just below the skin, swirling in on itself until nothing remained in the tubing. He peeled back the bandage. A small lump remained where the tendril had left, puckered like a sphincter. Pressing with his fingers he could make out the tendril below the surface of his skin, like some virulent strain of tapeworm on steroids. He replicated his results with the second tendril which came out near the needle in his left bicep. The lumps certainly didn’t seem normal, but they would be hard to spot under casual inspection.

“Take that, fuckers.”

Edwards and her C.D.C agents returned, dressed in bulky bio-hazard suits. Connor sat up as they swarmed around him.

“Unhook him. He doesn’t need any more fluid,” directed Edwards.

“Shall we sedate him?” asked a male agent.

Edwards gave Connor a curious look. “No,” she replied after some time. “I don’t believe it will be necessary with this one. It probably wouldn’t work anyway.”

“Lean forward,” instructed the same agent. “You need to put this mask on.”

Connor sat up. The agent slipped a surgical mask over his mouth and nose.

“Okay. Good to go, I think.”

They detached the various lines and released the foot brake on his hospital bed. One agent took each end of the bed frame, wheeling the bed forward, turning it then pushing through the plastic lining and out the swinging door. The soldier followed behind Edwards. The overhead lights blinded him. Connor blinked his vision clear and looked about. The hospital was unusually quiet, except perhaps the E.R ward on any given day. The halls had been cleared of staff. The signs and posters showed he was in the children’s ward. Edwards and her crew executed their business in solemn silence. It gave Connor a bad feeling, as if he was being carted off to prison or the morgue. They came to an elevator guarded by another soldier who held the doors open. The party wheeled inside. Edwards slapped the ground floor button. The party stood stiffly at attention as the elevator descended. Connor was beginning to wonder if their silence was due to fear or anxiety. The doors opened. An officer of the National Guard stood outside, hands on hips, the golden bar of his insignia gleaming on the matt black of his Tac-bio suit.

“Who is Dr Edwards?” he demanded.

“I am,” replied Edwards.

“What is this bullshit I’m hearing? Taking a fully loaded LUV across the city to babysit a bunch of kids?” said the lieutenant, pointing down the hall toward the exit. “Huh?”

Edwards slipped around the bed and confronted the soldier. “I am taking just a handful of men…”

“Dr…” growled the lieutenant, cutting her off. “You can’t take any of my men. We’re already spread thin enough throughout the city. We’ve got who knows how many A.R.C rebels in the city. The P.D are headless. The Feds have us backing them up on god-knows-what. I need every man here.”

“I have the authority,” started Edwards, ice dripping from her words. “Don’t you start with me.”

“Whose authority?” barked the lieutenant.

“The fucking joint chiefs,” snapped Edwards. “That’s who.”

The soldier looked at her long and hard, his face unreadable behind the imposing Tac mask. “Bullshit.”

“Call your commander. My orders supersede anything you may have heard.”

“Stay here,” said the lieutenant as he stalked off a distance to radio his commanding officer in private.

Edwards watched his back, her brows knitted tight. “Come out of the fucking elevator,” she said, waving the agents on.

“What kids is he talking about?” asked Connor as his bed was dragged into the hall.

Edwards ignored him.

“There is more than me?” asked Connor, raising his voice. “How many?”

Edwards stared at him, her emotions walled away behind an impassive mask.

“Tell me what’s going on,” urged Connor, his anxiety spiking to new levels of worry. An armed escort? Other kids? What weren’t they telling him?

The lieutenant returned. Edwards moved to intercept him.

“It appears you are right,” said the soldier, venom lacing his words. “So tell me exactly what you need.”

Edwards glanced at Connor then led the officer further down the hall.

“What the fuck is going on?” asked Connor, his suspicion going into overdrive.

The C.D.C agents ignored him.

“Why do I need a military escort?”

An agent looked down at him. “It’s just standard operating procedure. Relax kid.”

Connor tried to read the agents face but he looked away quickly. The whole situation was becoming more and more suspect. This talk of other kids and the need for soldiers to follow them rubbed Connor the wrong way. Edwards signalled the others to move. Her C.D.C agents pushed the bed down the hall, past the lieutenant who stood with arms crossed, toward the exit. National Guard lounged about outside, their Tac-bio helmets removed while they puffed on E-cigs and discussed sport and girls, dark green crates of military supplies piled around them. Connor winced at the natural light. He breathed in the outside air, his nose picking up the scents of the Hospital exhaust vents, the damp city smells of Boise and the mixed aroma of flavoured E-cigs. A plain squad car, armoured truck, ambulance and black LUV sat in a column, engines revving. The top mounted machine gun on the LUV swivelled left to right as the gunner adjusted the remote controls. A gurney waited outside of the ambulance. They stopped his bed beside it.

“Who’s got the key for this thing?” asked a C.D.C man, pointing to Connors handcuffs.

Edwards fished a key from the giant pocket on the bio-suits belt. “Here you go.”

He unlocked the cuff holding Connor to the hospital beds rail. “Jump on the gurney, kid,”

Connor swung his legs over the edge and stood up, wobbling initially as the feeling returned to his legs. It felt good to be off his back. He stretched.

“Come on, we haven’t got all day…”

“Do you have to chain me to that?” asked Connor, indicating the waiting gurney.

“Yes.”

Connor sighed and lay on the gurney. He was cuffed immediately to the side rail.

“Here we go… up,” said an agent, pushing the gurney into the back of the ambulance.

The two male agents got into the back with Connor while two National Guardsmen hopped in the front.

“See you in Ohio,” said Edwards as the doors closed.