The intern, p.1
The Intern, p.1Stephanie Flynn
Copyright 2014 Stephanie Flynn
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Discover other titles by Stephanie Flynn:
The Final Stand (Intergalactic Pandemonium Part 1)
Targeting Error (Intergalactic Pandemonium Part 2)
Avenger Arrives (Intergalactic Pandemonium Part 3)
Revenge and Chaos (Intergalactic Pandemonium Part 4)
Cyborg Program (Intergalactic Pandemonium Part 5)
The Fateful Time
At the End of the Universe
Summer Night’s Breeze
Taming the Iris
Can’t Always Win
Table of Contents
Beginning of The Intern
Personal Message from Stephanie Flynn
About Stephanie Flynn
Connect with the Author
During the summer of 2032 an unremarkable obituary was posted online for the world to read. As far as I know, it never sparked significant interest in the general public. But for me it was a symbol of shame. It read like this:
Douglas D. Lamson, 38, Louisville, passed away unexpectedly June 27, 2032. He was born March 12, 1994, in Louisville, to the late John and Mary Lamson.
He will be cremated, and he will be missed by many. Please do not make contact for a viewing.
The lack of details, family or friends, or actual heart didn’t interest the public. I wish I could’ve helped him in time, but I didn’t know better. I want to tell you the true story of what happened. I owe Doug that much.
I just started my internship that summer. The way the professor pulled me aside to tell me of it didn’t register as odd, for a while. I reread the address in my hand and stared at the building in front of me. This can’t be right, I thought. Squished between commercial and residential brick townhouses, and walled off with barbed wire, I wondered about my professor. What kind of place was this? I asked the man dressed in street clothes just inside the chain-link fence if I indeed had the correct location. Showing him my ID, he ushered me through and locked the gates behind me.
The inside of the building was in stark contrast to the exterior. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but bright white walls and floors with retinal-scanning airlocks on the doors and armed guards wasn’t it. Once these lasers allowed my guide through the door, I was told to wait in this room. The room was small, dim, with a large one-way glass window. One tall man in a lab coat stood watching through the glass and I stepped up next to him. Moments later, he spoke.
“You’re the kid, right?”
“Yes, sir. I’m Steve the intern.”
I held out my hand, but his eyes never left the glass.
“Ok, Steve. I want you to come with me. We’ll be starting with some blood draws today.”
I looked through the glass to see the subject of interest to my mentor. A man sat in the chair, bound tightly, struggling to free himself. The sight was unnerving. All I’ve experimented on before were rats and rabbits.
We walked through a different white door in the small room and followed the short enclosed hallway. There was a small counter full of supplies: test tubes, needles, rubber strips, bandages, and pens. My mentor loaded his pockets with tubes and needles and motioned me to copy. We then walked into the subject’s room.
The subject immediately screamed out. “Get me out of here! You can’t do this! I have my rights!”
My mentor unloaded his pockets on a stainless steel rolling tray and indicated that I copy. His attempts to calm the struggling man were poorly executed and poorly received.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Lamson. This will only take a minute. I’m Dr. Anderson from the Department of Homeland Security. We are going to conduct a few involuntary tests and then you’ll be on your way. The more you struggle, the longer this will take.”
“I won’t allow any tests! Help! Anyone?” Mr. Lamson shifted in his seat. Desperation squeaked his voice. The leather straps were cutting into his flesh and sweat broke out along his brow.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lamson.” My mentor said without emotion. “We are working here to save people. Your blood will help create a vaccine against the common cold. Think of the productivity saved in the country. People will be feeling great, boosting our economy too. Shoppers everywhere. No more homeless, hungry. Jobs a-plenty! Can’t you see?” Mr. Lamson continued struggling and my mentor frowned. “This is going to happen and if you aren’t going to sit still…”
“No! I don’t care! Let me--”
Mr. Lamson slumped in his seat. I watched my mentor pull a syringe out from the captive’s neck.
“Ok, rookie. Get started. I want six vials filled, tagged, and dated. When you’re done, press the button on the wall over there.”
I nodded in agreement and my lab-coated mentor left the room. I stared at the subject. Seeing him slumped in his chair, unconscious, against his will, made my stomach convulse. Rats and rabbits don’t seem to care what’s going on. He does. And now he’s helpless. Who am I to take away his life blood? I had a feeling I was being watched from that one-way glass and I started to sweat debating the ethics of the tests. Soon they were going to come into the room. I had better start.
I wrapped a rubber strip around his bicep and snugged it tight. I slapped at his veins twice and his foot twitched. I paused and waited for more movement. Nothing. I slapped again and brought the needle down. The sharp edge just pressed against his flesh when he woke in an explosive fury, knocking me to the floor and shattering the vials and needles. The leather straps holding him down snapped like brittle sticks. He leapt across the room and heaved his body against the glass. It shattered on impact, sending him hurling over the other side. No one was there.
He opened the door to the hall of armed guards and I followed him out, a little more clumsily. I reached the hall after him and looked for the guards, but they were gone.
“Wait! Mr. Lamson!” I called to his back. “Please! It’s just a blood draw!”
He ignored me while sprinting to freedom, but he never made it. Right at the front door, two hidden guards swung around the corner and bashed him in the head with batons. I heard his head crack upon impact and then crunch on the white tile floor, now blood-stained. The guards took him by the feet and dragged him to a different door.
“Is this one available?” one guard spoke into his shoulder radio.
“No. Try door 110,” a muffled voice returned.
The guards hauled him down a few more doors and pressed an invisible button to reveal the number. I followed them as they opened door 110 and strapped him into a fresh chair.
“Do your business, kid,” one said to me.
I went to the short hall adjacent to that room and replenished my stock. The guards left. I returned to the room and set out my supplies on a small tray table just as Dr. Anderson had before and rolled it over. My subject, I mean, Mr. Lamson was mangled. His head was misshapen and bleeding. I would be surprised if he survived. I must collect my samples before he dies and the blood coagulates. My medical brain kept calm and performed the steps, while my human brain flopped around like a fish out of water. I
“Mr. Lamson, I know this seems unpleasant, but it will only take a few minutes. Your blood could save lives, you know. Like my mentor tried explaining. A small sample, taken on a large scale, can truly become a miracle. We’re only asking for a sample. We aren’t going to kill you or anything.” I gulped at that. Mr. Lamson didn’t flinch, but he continued dripping from the skull. A puddle began forming near my toes as I leaned over to fill more vials.
A door behind me opened, startling the syringe from my fingers.
“Nice work, kid,” my mentor said. “Don’t be startled. That’s nowhere for steady hands to be.”
“I’m sorry sir. I...I just,” I turned to my still patient. “He’s, he just doesn’t look good. That’s all.”
“He’ll be fine, watch.”
Dr. Anderson reached over with a small syringe and stuck it in Mr. Lamson’s neck, pumping a small amount of blue fluid into his throat tissues. “This happens a lot, rook. You better get used to it if you’re spending the summer here.”
“You mean, lots of combatant subjects?”
“Yes,” he said, “Now, get your last vial filled before he wakes.”
I worked quickly while my mentor watched. It was unnerving and I felt my hands starting to shake again. Something made my stomach cramp and this time it wasn’t Mr. Lamson’s dripping head.
“Sir?” I asked.
“Something’s been bothering me. If we’re working on a vaccine for the common cold to help people, why
The Intern by Stephanie Flynn / Science Fiction have rating 2.7 out of 5 / Based on35 votes