Lois ate one of the apples as she walked back to Bessolo Boulevard.
And for the first time in months, she felt ... *something*. It wasn't contentment ... it certainly wasn't enjoyment ... but it was as if the cloud of hopelessness that had surrounded her for so many weeks had thinned ... just a little ... just enough for her to glimpse a future that might, possibly, offer something other than pain and despair.
Walking in the cool air and gentle sunshine of fall, eating a sweet apple - it was so simple.
So normal.
So sane.
So unremarkable.
So taken-for-granted.
But not for him.
Part 4
Back at the compound, Lois sprinted up the steps and hurriedly unlocked her office door.
The prisoner was sitting up.
He was crouched forward, facing away, giving her an unrestricted view of the patchwork of wounds that marred his back. He seemed to be working on his legs - perhaps massaging them to ease away some of the soreness and stiffness.
Lois glanced to the clock and the list of times for the assistants' shifts. It wasn't yet one o'clock. Longford would be here at two.
Every entry into the cell would be planned beforehand to minimise the prisoner's exposure to the Achilles rods - starting today.
She could get Shadbolt to take in the water and the fruit now.
Or wait until Longford arrived and send them both in to shorten the length of time. That would mean two rods. There definitely seemed to be a time factor - the longer the rods were in the cell, the longer the prisoner took to recover. Did a greater number of rods also increase the effect? She didn't know. For now, she would work on what she did know and minimise the time of his exposure.
She moved to the gap between the closet and the desk and looked down on the alien.
His head was draped over his knees, and he wasn't moving. Perhaps he'd reached the limit of his pain tolerance and was resting in preparation for the next effort.
Lois opened the closet, stopped the recording, and rewound the tape.
She played it. The prisoner had moved a little - in robot-like staccato - but Shadbolt hadn't entered the cell.
When it was over, she went down to the staffroom. Shadbolt was reading 'Sky and Telescope' magazine. His eyes didn't leave the page, and he made no comment.
Lois made herself a coffee, took it back to her office, and picked up another handful of notes from the folder.
So far, she'd read about a quarter of them. Much of it was endless speculation regarding Trask's predictions of the alien's nefarious intentions. Lois noted grimly that if Trask had ever had the mind to take control of the world, he already had a detailed, well-advanced plan.
But Trask's ambitions were less lofty than world domination.
It seemed all he craved was absolute power over an individual ... who just might be an alien.
Or not.
||_||
At one o'clock, Lois heard the external door open. Longford had arrived.
She laid Trask's sheet of notes on the 'read' pile and leapt from her seat.
By this time, the prisoner had made it to his feet and was limping around the extremities of his cell.
Lois rustled through her bag for the toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap. She peeled away the packaging and replaced the items in her bag. She hesitated over the Neosporin. If he didn't know what it was - and couldn't read the label ... What if he *ate* it?
Deciding not to risk it, she left the tube on her desk. After activating the camera, she picked up her bag and left the office.
At the bottom of the stairs, Lois slipped into the bathroom and removed a clean towel from the closet.
She continued into the staffroom, where Longford and Shadbolt were involved in a game of cards. "You'll both be going into the cell in a few minutes," she informed them as she spread the towel on the table.
Longford's eyes left his cards long enough to nod. Shadbolt didn't respond.
Lois unpacked the soap, toothpaste, toothbrush, washcloth, orange, apple, and bottle of water from her bag and placed them in the middle of the towel. She added a plastic mug to the pile and then folded the end of the towel over the variously sized bumps and made a secure bundle. She took the bowl to the sink, rinsed it out, and filled it with tepid water.
"Do you have a pink bow to go with that?" Shadbolt scoffed. "Or perhaps a pretty posy of flowers?"
Lois turned on him, pouring pure contempt into her look. He didn't back down, meeting her with a patronising smile and cold, hard eyes.
"You will get a rod each," Lois said, not breaking her eye contract with Shadbolt. "I will unlock the door to the cell. Shadbolt - you will take in the bowl of water. Longford - you will take in the towel and its contents." Her attention slid from Shadbolt to the other man. "You will complete the task quickly but carefully. There are to be no *accidents*, no spilling of the water, no dropping of the towel."
"Why are you doing this?" Shadbolt sneered. "He's not human."
"But I am," Lois replied.
Shadbolt snorted. "Someone will pay for this," he said ominously. "If you loosen the screws ... if you allow him to regain his strength, he *will* kill again."
"I take responsibility for my decisions," Lois said.
"Responsibility ain't worth squat if we're dead," Longford noted.
Lois took her keys from her bag. "Get the rods," she directed.
The chairs scraped loudly across the floor as both men stood. They went to the closet and took out two rods. When they had picked up the bowl and the towel, Lois unlocked the door. "Ready?" she asked.
Longford nodded.
Lois pushed the door away and stood back to allow the men to pass her. Unable to restrain her curiosity, she stepped into the doorway, and her eyes volleyed between the collapsed, turned-away figure of the prisoner in the far corner and her two assistants.
They placed the bowl and towel on the concrete and returned to the door. Lois hustled them forward and closed it quickly. "Everything OK?" she asked.
"No," Shadbolt said. "He was distraught that we couldn't stay long enough for him to write you a little 'thank you' note."
Lois ignored him. She locked the cell door and sprinted up the stairs to her office. Once there, she moved straight to the window.
He had collapsed against the wall. He was in pain - Lois recognised the hunch of his shoulders and the droop of his head.
And she had caused it.
The rods had been taken into the cell on her orders.
She waited, her eyes riveted to the half-naked, traumatised figure of the prisoner. Finally, he unfurled and clambered to his feet.
Lois grimaced at the agony inherent in his movements. She didn't know exactly when Moyne had bashed him, but by now, his bruised muscles and broken skin must have seized up.
And another dose of the Achilles rods - albeit short - would have compounded his anguish.
He swayed a little, one hand extended as if trying to overcome dizziness. Slowly, he straightened to his full height and looked towards the door. Recognition lit his face when he saw the bowl and towel.
He limped to them, dropped to his knees, and drank from cupped hands.
When he had finished drinking, he dried his hands on his shorts and cautiously unrolled the towel.
He stopped.
Stared.
His hand - nicely shaped with long fingers - shook as it hovered above the towel.
He sank onto his calves and his hands drifted to his thighs without having touched any of the items.
He didn't move for a long moment. Lois began to wonder if his hesitancy indicated a lack of familiarity. He'd understood the soap and washcloth yesterday. Could that have been instinct? Instinct that didn't extend to toothpaste?
Finally, his head lifted slowly and deliberately, and he looked directly at the centre of the viewing window. He raised one hand in an unsteady gesture.
Lois's throat thickened. She swallowed, and it felt like she was trying to push down a golf ball.
The prisoner lowered his gaze and again examined the contents of the towel. He took the apple and cradled it in both hands. His thumbs slid over the smooth skin. After a minute of holding it, he carefully placed it on the concrete and reached for the orange. He brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply.
Once he had placed the orange next to the apple, the prisoner picked up the toothbrush and toothpaste. He uncapped the paste, slid a carefully measured amount along the bristles, and replaced the lid.
Then, he brushed his teeth.
Lois watched, deductions flying through her brain like arrows.
Human or not, he had definitely *lived* as a human.
He was familiar with regular objects.
He knew how to use them.
He *wanted* to use them.
How had Trask determined that this man was an alien?
How had Trask justified taking his freedom and reducing him to the life of an animal?
He'd killed two men.
Lois backed into the chair and sat down - still watching the prisoner as he began washing his face and neck.
Which had come first? Trask's cruelty? Or the prisoner's aggressive behaviour towards his captors?
She'd seen no evidence of aggressive behaviour.
She'd seen no evidence of 'powers' either. She had seen nothing to suggest that the individual Trask had feared so vehemently *could* actually take over the world even if that had been his goal. The only noticeable difference between him and other humans was his reaction to the Achilles rods. Could Trask have implanted something that was activated by the rods? Something that caused pain? Electric shock perhaps?
Lois snatched at the notebook and rifled through it, looking for a particular entry.
She found it.
March 1, 1988
Today, I strengthened my position over the enemy. We exposed him to the Achilles for a full twelve hours overnight, leaving him weak and vulnerable this morning. The surgery was performed by Moyne and Shadbolt.
Surgery?
Performed by *Moyne and Shadbolt*?
Lois steered her mind away from the sickening thought of two agents performing surgery as the prisoner had lain on the concrete floor of the cell. If necessary, she would deal with that later.
For now, she needed to consider the effects. The *surgery* had happened seven months after the capture. Lois flicked back a few pages and found earlier reference to the rods adversely affecting the prisoner.
Had they found a way to attach something to him ... before eventually implanting it in him?
Lois dropped her face into her hands.
What if he was human?
What if he was just a man?
An agent who had run afoul of Trask?
Or perhaps just a man living a normal life - probably with his wife and a couple of kids - until Trask had sucked him into this vacuum of torment?
Lois's head shot up.
She needed more information. The boxes hadn't arrived yet - they promised information about the time prior to the capture - but over half of Trask's loose notes were still unread. With new purpose, she picked up a sheet and began scrutinising it for anything that would give a clue to the prisoner's former life.
Every word she read seemed to push Trask's portrayal and her observations further apart.
Lois glanced through the window.
He'd gone!
She lurched from her seat and rushed to the window. She looked straight down - just in time to see him drag his shorts up his legs and fasten them at his stomach.
It wasn't the fleeting sight of the uncovered male buttocks that had her mind reeling - but that he wanted privacy.
Clearly, he knew he could be watched through the window. He had signalled his acknowledgement for the items in the towel.
Yesterday, he had dropped his shorts without thought of being observed. Today, he'd tried to squeeze against the wall to be less visible. What had changed?
He picked up the bowl of water and - struggling a little under its weight - took it behind the little wall that screened the toilet.
After he'd tipped out the water, he returned with the empty bowl. He slanted it against the wall and arranged the towel across the top of it - presumably to facilitate drying.
Then he picked up the fruit and the bottle of water, went to his favoured place against the back wall, and sat down.
He slowly eased backwards, and as he touched the wall, he grimaced in anguish.
Once settled, he unscrewed the cap and drank from the bottle.
Then, he replaced the lid, put the bottle on the floor, and picked up the fruit - one piece in each hand.
He held them.
Gazed at them.
Like he couldn't believe ... Like he couldn't decide which one to eat first ... Like he wasn't sure whether to eat them or to simply relish the anticipation.
Lois had intended to watch him. She had wanted to know whether he was familiar with them. Whether he knew not to eat the orange peel and the apple core. Whether he ate them the way a human would.
But she couldn't watch anymore.
The depth of his reaction to such simple things as an apple and an orange had demonstrated the impoverishment of his life more graphically than any of Trask's notes.
Lois opened the log, picked up her red marker, and began reading.
She started with the day of his capture.
He is not human. He is an animal - a dangerous, vile, depraved animal - who knows nothing but brutality and violence.
She put a line through 'depraved', and 'brutality', and 'violence'.
She put three emphatic lines through 'animal'.
She turned the pages, getting rid of 'openly hostile' and words such as 'unintelligent' and 'uncomprehending'. 'Beast' was scattered liberally through Trask's log. She struck out every instance she saw.
The page opened at November 2, 1988.
He killed today.
Lois lifted her eyes from the notebook to the prisoner. He had begun peeling the orange.
He was not the dangerous savage that Trask described in his notes.
Not now.
Had he been once?
Was it, as Shadbolt claimed, the regular beatings that kept him manageable?
Perhaps the discipline sessions could control his malevolence, but they couldn't instil the desire to be clean.
He was familiar with human foods. He knew how to unscrew a top from a bottle. He tidied up after himself.
And ...
And he'd shown gratitude ... or at least recognition.
Lois was absolutely convinced that the tentative wave had been meant to express his thanks.
That was not the behaviour of a ferocious brute.
It wasn't even the behaviour of someone who had become twisted and bitter at the gross injustice that had been inflicted upon him.
Lois thumped both fists onto the desk in anger and frustration.
How the hell had this situation been allowed to continue for seven years?
||_||
Three boxes of Trask's research arrived twenty minutes later.
Lois carried them into her office and stared despondently at them. It was possible that in there - somewhere - was the information she needed about how the prisoner had lived prior to his capture.
But she suspected that it was going to be like searching for an oasis in the desert - very long, very dry and very difficult to find what she wanted.
She opened the nearest box. It was filled with notebooks. She lifted them out and counted them as she placed them in a pile on the floor. Ten.
Ten notebooks filled with Trask's small, crushed ramblings.
None of them had titles.
None of them were numbered.
Trask had dated the entries in his post-capture log but everything else he'd written about this operation was chaotic and disorganised.
With a sigh, Lois picked up the nearest book and sat at her desk.
The prisoner had eaten half of his orange. She watched as he carefully eased away a section and popped it into his mouth. His head went back, his eyes closed, and he chewed slowly as if determined to savour every morsel.
Lois tore her eyes away. She found herself watching him way too much. This was a just a job - a job that kept her in Metropolis so she could regularly visit her father.
The prisoner's situation was regrettable ... but it wasn't of her making.
She would ensure that he did not escape. She would ensure that he didn't harm any human. She wouldn't allow him to be hurt unnecessarily.
But that was the extent of her responsibilities.
Except ... she really wanted to know more about him. Not about *him* specifically, but about how he had come to be trapped in a cell and forced to live like an animal.
And how Trask had concluded that he was an alien threatening the existence of the human race.
And why, despite everything he had endured, he hadn't deteriorated to become what Trask had accused him of at the start - a wild, feral animal.
Lois lowered her eyes to Trask's notebook and continued her search for information.
Half an hour later, she'd finished the first book. It was filled with mathematical formulae, scientific terms, and pages of rambling notes where every sentence seemed to contain at least thirty words. If it had *anything* to do with the capture of an alien, the significance was too obscure for Lois to grasp.
Movement in the cell caused her to look up. A narrow strip of sunlight - from the window above the shelves - had splashed onto the floor of the cell.
The prisoner had positioned himself in the beam so that the meagre late afternoon rays fell on his broad and blemished back.
He liked the sun.
Having been locked away with continuous artificial light for so long, that was hardly surprising.
Was that why Trask had kept the black curtain across the window? To prevent even the smallest amount of sunlight reaching the cell?
Lois pushed her chair backwards and climbed onto it. The curtains were drawn back but still blocked the extremities of the glass. She yanked the material and the rod slid easily from the brackets.
Back on the ground, she tossed the rod and black curtains on to the boxes containing Trask's possessions.
In the cell, the scrap of sunlight, although still small, had widened.
And her office was brighter, too.
||_||
At a quarter past six, Lois went to the front of the warehouse and found a bag on the doorstep. She peered into the bag, unable to subdue the feeling of anticipation it evoked. How long had it been since he'd eaten a meal that looked fit for human consumption? A month? A year? Seven years?
She doused her eagerness with a stern reminder that as soon as her father was well enough, she would be leaving Metropolis, relinquishing this assignment, and resuming her career.
But as she walked behind the warehouse to the compound where the prisoner was kept, she couldn't resist lifting the lid of the container and peeking inside. There were three thick slices of roasted chicken breast, a baked potato, peas, and carrots. Simple food.
She inhaled. It smelled great.
And she was pretty sure it was going to taste great.
She entered the staffroom as Longford was finishing his meal.
On the table sat the unopened smaller container that Lois knew was *meant* to be the meal for the prisoner. Inside, she felt a flash of triumph.
It was a tiny triumph, but she felt like she was clawing back an inch of ground from the miles that been snatched by the bad guys.
"Have you finished?" she asked Longford politely.
"Uh huh."
"Will you take this to the prisoner now, please?"
He said nothing - merely went to the closet and took out a rod.
"There's no need to go into the room," Lois said. "We'll open the door, put the meal on the ground, and use the other end of the rod to push it into the cell."
Longford nodded. In his eyes, Lois thought she detected genuine uneasiness - as if he really did believe that her efforts to improve the lot of the prisoner would lead to tragedy.
Lois reached into her bag and withdrew the tube of Neosporin. His injuries were healing. Did he need the antiseptic cream? Would he know what to do with it?
"You're *not* thinking of giving him *that*, are you?" Longford said. "He'll probably eat it and poison himself."
"If it were that easy to poison him, I'm sure it would have been done by now." Lois said. But she dropped the tube back into her bag. She unlocked the door; Longford leant through the doorway, deposited the meal on the floor, and then pushed it with the non-Achilles end of the rod.
As soon as he was out of the way, Lois closed the door without looking into the cell. She locked it and removed the key. "Thanks," she said to Longford.
She picked up the meal from the caterer, dumped it in the trashcan, and then hurried up the stairs.
When she arrived at the window, the prisoner was walking across the cell towards the meal. His body still bore the signs of Moyne's attack and his steps were slow and measured, but his capacity to heal was extraordinary.
Perhaps, over the years, he had learnt ways to minimise the effects of being regularly bashed. Perhaps he knew that massage helped.
About four yards from the door, he hesitated. Was he worried that this was a trap? Had the change in routine spooked him?
He took the final few steps quickly and dropped low to pick up the container. Lois saw a little jolt that looked like surprise. Was that because it was hot? When was the last time he'd been given hot food?
He walked to the area under her window and looked up. Lois knew he couldn't see her, because his eyes were focussed on the centre of the window, and she was standing to the side. He nodded and lifted one hand in a gesture that was clearly meant to convey gratitude.
Lois turned away.
Trask had written about a vicious and brutal animal. A killer.
Yet in less than two days, the prisoner's behaviour had challenged just about every one of Trask's assertions about the *alien*.
Had imprisonment changed him *that* much? Had it changed him from a ferocious murderer to a quiet, civilised man? Had Trask drugged him? Did the regular exposure to the rods - however that worked - have a long-term effect?
Lois didn't know.
But she sure intended to find out.
||_||
It was half an hour before midnight, and Lois was in a quandary.
The prisoner - in the never-changing light of his cell - was asleep on the concrete.
How had he known it was night-time?
Could he hear movement in the staffroom? Even if he could, it didn't explain how he would know the time of day. There was someone in the staffroom twenty-four hours a day.
Regardless, he was asleep.
And Lois was exhausted.
She had spent the evening tackling more of Trask's research. She'd found the book that was devoted to a study of a spaceship - the vehicle that Trask believed had brought the alien to Earth. Trask had painstakingly studied every possible aspect of it, noted his findings, and speculated wildly on possible ramifications. She'd pored over every page ... and found nothing useful in trying to build a picture of the prisoner's former life.
Now it was late, and she was tired.
But Moyne was here and would be for the remainder of the night.
Lois couldn't sleep here - that wasn't possible.
The camera would record everything that happened in the cell during her absence, but it wouldn't prevent Moyne going into the cell.
Lois picked up her bag and took a deep breath.
It just wasn't feasible for her to be here all the time. She had to visit her father. She had to go to her apartment to sleep.
Lois checked that the camera was recording and secured the padlock on the closet door. Then she locked her office and strode down the stairs and into the staffroom.
Moyne looked up with a smile that turned her stomach. He had piggy-shaped eyes and a broad flat nose. "You're here late, Ms Lane," he said in an oily voice. "Would you like to share a cup of coffee with me? I've just made a fresh batch."
"No. Thank you, Moyne," she said.
Her refusal didn't dent his smile. "How are you settling in?" he asked as he stirred sugar into his coffee.
"I want you to give me your key to the cell," Lois said.
He looked taken aback, and his thick eyebrows knitted together above the bridge of his nose. "My key to the cell?" he said. "Weren't you given one?"
"I was given one," Lois said. "But I don't want you to enter the cell when you are here alone."
"You're concerned for my safety?" he derided. "How sweet."
"Give me your key."
He took the bunch of keys from the pocket of his brown pants and held them towards her. Towards her, but not within reach. Lois reached to take them, and Moyne snatched them away.
"Give me your key," Lois said.
"Come and get it," he drawled.
Forcing herself to remain calm, Lois took a controlled step forward and grasped the keys where they dangled from his finger. Moyne didn't release them. His other hand folded around where Lois had hold of his keys. His face came so close that the stench of stale cigarette smoke assaulted her nostrils.
"It's a lonely life," he said. "You have to take a bit of companionship when it's offered."
"It's not being offered," Lois said through gritted teeth.
He smiled. "There will be plenty more nights." His words sent an icy river snaking up Lois's back.
She jerked the keys from his hand and stepped away.
He smiled knowingly, and Lois felt an urgent compulsion to slap the expression from his face.
She removed the cell key from the ring and tossed the external key onto the table. "You are not to enter the cell under any circumstances," she said.
"How can I?" Moyne asked with slimy innocence. "You have my key."
Lois spun around and left the staffroom.
"See you tomorrow night, Ms Lane," he called after her. "I'll be waiting for you."
||_||
The nightmare was back.
It was dark, so very dark.
The darkness amplified every sound. Every gut-wrenching sound drilled through her ears, and invaded her brain, and painted explicit visual detail on the panorama of her memories.
She heard the scream.
And the partially muffled grunts of pain. And effort. And disgust. And horror. And fear.
She heard the sound of clothing being torn.
And the smash of bone into flesh.
She heard the trickle of blood - the drip ... drip ... drip ... drip as it landed on the floor.
Lois screeched.
She awoke as the last gush of breath whistled past her gaping mouth.
She clawed for the lamp and fumbled in her haste to turn it on. She found it, flicked the switch, and blessed light chased away the darkness.
She stared around the room - checking every corner, every cranny - as the stampede of her heart roared through her ears.
She was alone.
Alone.
The nightmare was over.
It was over.
It would never be over.
She would live with that night for the rest of her life.
She would never, ever escape its terror. It was inside her. Stuck in her head. Weaved through her memory. Poisoning her from within. It surrounded her. Closing in on her. Suffocating her. Stalking her.
There could be no escape.
There had been no escape for her friend.
Her partner.
The shaking began slowly as it always did.
It escalated, and within minutes, uncontrollable convulsions shuddered through her entire body. Her stomach muscles gripped painfully. Her shoulders cinched tight into her neck.
She didn't fight it.
She couldn't fight it.
All of her will to fight had been sapped in the effort to survive.
In getting out of the hell.
She had saved herself.
But she hadn't saved her friend.
Not from death.
Not from what had happened before he had finally released her to the sanctuary of death.
And for that, Lois would never forgive.
