Chapter Eleven

It was like choosing between a GTO and a Camaro.

Impossible.

Really, that was the only word suitable for Marianne's morning choice between an apple and coffee or a donut. She'd decided on coffee just fine, and she'd gotten herself dressed that morning wonderfully. It had all been a dream until she'd gone into the resort for breakfast, her bungalow having no food in house whatesoever.

It had all gone so downhill so quickly.

Now it was an all out stare-fest between her, an apple, and a delicious jelly donut parked beneath shining pastry-case lights and securely resting behind Plexiglas doors. The apple was perched keenly in a power of fruit next to the register, Marianne eyeing both as if they each possessed the holy grail. Sighing, she eyed the donut, and then was about to reach for the apple when someone nudged her as they brushed past, towards the donuts. They stopped directly in front of the case.

Taking it as an omen, she hardly heard him apologize. A boy about twelve years old, he had shaggy brown curls and was dressed in jeans and a grey t-shirt, which cleverly covered a small leather pouch resting on his hip. A slight sunburn graced his nose. He looked up at her and smiled, "Sorry. You going for one of these?"

She shook her head, "No. Help yourself." He nodded, open the door, and pulled out a glazed ring. She eyed it hungrily, but then wrapped her fingers around the apple, thinking how many suicide-runs it would take to burn the carbs and sugars off. Pulling the apple to her mouth, she paid the register, "Looks good though." Marianne hoped she wasn't drooling.

He nodded. "I love donuts." He handed the cashier a dollar, she made change, and he began to leave. Marianne, grabbing her coffee, hurried out of the breakfast shop into the quietness of the morning. He glanced over his shoulder, biting into the donut, eyes focused on the ID hanging slightly out of her pocket.

"You work here?" He asked, curious. She looked up at him and nodded, digging around her purse for her phone.

"Yeah." The coffee mug shifted in her hands, coffee sloshing over the side, burning her hand a bit. Giving him a weak smile, she noted the Explorer package bracelet around his wrist (she'd read the brochure on the ferry, afterall). "How long are you here?" She decided if he was going to make small talk, she'd oblige him.

"All summer. My aunt's a manager."

Marianne had all she could do not to frown at him. So he was a VIP. She gave him a half smile and shrugged a shoulder. She supposed he got his passes and his stay entirely free. "Well that sounds fun," she winked at him, "I bet you get to see all sorts of good stuff, huh?"

He shrugged, taking another bite of donut. "I guess. What do you do?"

She had to stop and think. Secretary wasn't the proper title, but she hadn't exactly started field assisting. And besides, that wasn't nearly as fun to tell him-he was probably thinking she was some sort of animal trainer or something. She ignored it, wondering why this kid was up so early at...she finally wrapped her hand around the phone and pulled it out to check it, six thirty.

Oh no.

Dropping the apple, she rushed by him, towards her Camaro, which she'd parked adjacent form the petting zoo. Since no one was around, it was quiet enough to have the car in public and not worry about people getting their hands all over it. Tossing her purse through the open window, she practically flew into the car, slammed the keys in the ignition, and jammed her foot onto the clutch. Whipping the car into first, she flew through the gears, tearing out of the resort area, leaving the poor kid in the dust.

She got to the paddock, screaming into the parking lot and slamming the brakes, kicking up a cloud of dust towards the individuals gathered around the main gate, where she'd had her interview. Rushing out of the car, she collected herself, and attempted to be casual as she ignored the looks from Briggs, Silas, and Barry. Hurrying up the steps two at a time, her legs burned, and she made it to the office door in two strides. Perspiration dotting her brow, it was slightly curbed as the breeze from her jerking open the door caressed her face. Marianne stopped in the doorway.

Owen was at his computer, poking away at the keys with an index finger, the other pointing to a file she recognized as belonging to Charlie. Having color-coded Charlie with a hot-pink highlighter for easy recognition, she noticed Charlie's lab records and I&O's out as well. Wrinkling her brow, she tossed her purse onto the windowsill's ledge and came up behind him, glancing at the computer.

"Good morning, sunshine," he chirped lightly. Never one for being a morning person, she gave him a sideways glance, her lower back aching from the sit-ups this morning. After sit-ups and push-ups at five AM, she was feeling less than ready for his perkiness. "I see you've decided to grace us with your presence today." He smiled at her. "You're late."

"I know." She said flatly.

He got up, shrugging. "I won't tell if you won't," he flipped the front page of the chart, and then flipped another. His face wrinkled as he read, and she noticed he had his jaw set. Still unshaven, he smelled of Old Spice and, surprisingly, was in a v-neck t-shirt and cargo's today instead of a vest. His knife holster, situated behind him, was traditionally (or habitually, she would have to see) situated behind him.

After reading a bit more, Marianne clearing his screen on the computer, he closed the file and tossed it onto the desk. Running his fingers through his hair, she felt him staring at her as she began to take a stack of Charlie's records from the bookcase behind her to begin entering into the computer. She opened the first one, when suddenly his hand slapped onto the front cover of it, surprising her. He steeped his fingers up, knuckles white as he leaned onto them, and he stared at her as she blinked. She got the feeling he was going to say something, but beat him to it. "Yes?"

"You can work on this later," he stood and moved towards the door, closing it slightly. Behind it, she noted, was a coat-rack; a deep cherry-wood bearing exactly three items: a rain-jacket, the helmet she'd spotted Sophie wearing, and a sharp looking rifle with a scope and sling. Grabbing the rifle, he slung it over his shoulder. Her brows rose as she recognized the weapon.

She knew it as a Marlin, maybe a 45. Her uncle, a big game hunter in Alaska, had carried one many, many years ago. He'd passed it onto her brother, a gunsmith, after he'd retired. She didn't know much about it, but she could shoot it-it was a heavy, thick rifle, and it was strong. With a strong reputation, and words of praise from her brother, she knew the rifle was a decent one, if nothing else. Being a side-arm woman herself, she never had personally owned a rifle, but she knew how to shoot them.

"Nice shooter you got there," she nodded towards it, gesturing with a hand. Own glanced over his shoulder and gave her a look that read "like-you-even-know". She quirked a brow at her and stepped outside, waving her to follow. She obeyed, feeling like a dog, and closed the door behind her. "45-70?"

He had grabbed the railing to the catwalk leading out into the middle of the pen when he stopped and snapped his head up to look at her. Squinting against the sun, he gave her a crooked smile. "Yeah. You know it?"

She nodded. "My brother's a gunsmith. He has the exact same thing, only in black." She stopped at the beginning of the catwalk, unsure. She glanced into the paddock where she saw the tip of a retile-like tail dash into the foliage, rustling it and ending its cycle of serenity. Her heart pitched when she saw it.

"Well, then I guess you're just up on everything, aren't you?" He chuckled, "You always this full of surprises? Or should I watch out?"

Marianne shrugged, grinning at him. "That depends," he crossed the walkway and she followed towards the other side. Another set of stairs led downward, and he tromped down them. "Do you like surprises?" Her voice echoed off the walls surrounding the steps, and he opened up the door with a key from his pocket.

"Depends on the surprise," he quirked a brow, giving her a playful look. "Alright. This is where we keep the meds." He entered inside, flicked on the lights, and passed by a lab table, plucking up a clipboard as he passed. Holding it over his shoulder, he stopped at a shelf and reached high, plucking a white box from the top shelf. She hurried to accept the board. Glancing at it, she found it to be a lab report, one for the week. She glanced up at him, then felt her left pocket for a pen. Nadda. Glancing up at him, she found one nestled in the pocket of his v-neck shirt. Stepping towards him, she reached across his chest for the pen and plucked it, clicked it, and began scribbling the date.

"How do you know what surprises to like or don't like?" She furthered the conversation, giving it thought as she referenced the report from last week, filling in basic information about-Delta, she noticed. Birth year? Four years ago, 2011. Marianne scribbled in that she was the second sibling next to Blue. "I mean, that makes no sense." Species? She shortened it to Raptor.

"Well, one of my many charms," he snatched the pen from her when she'd stopped writing and scribbled on the box. She gave him an unimpressed look. "Hey. I'm a mysterious guy."

"So are half the men in the rest of the world." She challenged good-naturedly.

He handed the pen back, giving her an amused look. "What about the other half?"

She shrugged, following him out of the room and flicking the lights off as they left. Following him back up the steps, daylight struck her eyes as it glinted off the Marlin. "Just stupid I guess."

He snorted, "A pretty biased opinion, coming from a woman."

He led her back into the middle of the catwalk. "Men can't be left to judge themselves. There'd be no room left for women with all their ego." She grinned at him, cheekily. "Okay, so, what are we doing?"

"Medicating." He reached inside of the metal pale hooked on the outside of the railing, grabbing a white, dead rat. She wrinkled her brow, frowned, and watched as he lifted open the mouth with a fingertip and dropped the pill into the rodent's mouth. He gave her a slick look, tossed the rat over the side, and it hit the ground a few seconds later. Owen turned on his heel and began marching from the cat-walk. "Ok. Done."

"That's it?"

He stopped, her abruptly pulling up. Whirling around, he chuckled. "What? You want me to let her eat it out of my hand?"

She charted, copying the other reports, and followed him down the steps. "How do you know Delta will be the one to eat it?" She asked, slowly descending, not looking up from the chart. Owen, already at the bottom, swung himself around the corner and called after her.

"Because she's the only in there at the moment! C'mon, it's time for a skin check, and you won't want to miss it."

. . .

"What happened?" Claire rushed into the medical bay, out of breath and white chaffon shirt dripping with sweat between her shoulder blades. Her shoulders were raw from her bra strap rubbing continually, and she cursed herself for wearing long-sleeves in the humidity. Brushing aside a pasted-to-her-skin section of hair, her cell phone at hand, her heels clicking the floor of the sterile-looking medical bay as she entered. Frowning at the doctor and two nurses gathered around the man lying on the medical table, she stopped at the foot.

Bile rising into her mouth, she had to take a step back, raising a hand to cover her mouth. Looking away, her breath hitched, and she began to gag. Swallowing the reflex after getting her bearings a few moments later, she felt the wave of nausea leave and felt the dread make itself at home in her gut. A lawsuit. A big, fat, ugly lawsuit almost as ugly as the situation. Slowly peering around, the doctor glanced her way.

"Ah, Miss Dearing, finally able to manage the sight I see," the South African doctor, a sandy-haired man of 37, removed the mask from his face, staining it due to bloody gloves. Claire knew him as Jake Coborn, a handsome, strapping man overpaid and in high demand from half the hospitals on the globe. She'd gotten him here over a glass of wine, a quick bite to eat, and a fat salary of three hundred thousand a year. "Welcome. Please, please, have a look. Seems your...attractions have an eye for...well, to put it ironically, eyes." He waved her forward, discarding the gloves.

The unconscious man on the table, under the nurses' gentle eye, looked like something out of a Frankenstein movie. Claire gasped, putting a shaky hand to her mouth. What was left of his ragged flesh, hanging in ribbons, was not much: the entire left side of his face was skin-less, a gaping hole where his cheek had been proudly sported his jaw-bone, where she could count his entire set of teeth. Also missing too was the eye, and she had to spin away and dash for the sink, vomiting what was left of her croissant breakfast sandwich. Jake came up beside her and watched her clean up, giving her that all familiar look of sympathy and disgust. She wiped the side of her mouth and staggered backward, one hand on the counter and faced him. The monitor, signaling the man's vitals, beeped calmly behind them, rhythmically. "Oh god."

"Yes, oh God indeed, Claire. That man is blind and will most likely die of infection. The wounds have completely incinerated his nerve endings and he will never be able to open his mouth again," he frowned at her, pointing at the man's body, "He'll have to be fed through an IV or a GT tube. He's essentially dead. I don't know if he can even recover," he looked away from her. "Psychologically or physically."

She, swallowing, shook her head and raised a hand at him, passing by, "I don't need this now, Jake," she quick-dialed Vivian, "I just signed an endorsement from-"

"-was it worth your millions of dollars, Claire?" He spat at her, thrusting a finger at the man. The nurse jumped when his decibel rose. Claire jerked back a few steps as his face contorted out of rage, "-was that beast worth this man's life? His family's agony? I hope you got plenty of money, Claire Dearing, because the lawsuit on this man will be magnificent!"

"Don't speak to me like that-"

"That demon is killing people, Claire!" He shouted. From the corner of her eye, the nurse dropped the tool she'd been using, it clattering to the floor. Claire whipped her attention to the stopping nurse and then back to Jake, who came stomping towards her. "When are you going to see that?"

"We have the situation under control." She said flatly, her eyes glazing with rage. "Corporate has already set to making plans to make the walls bigger in the following weeks-"

"Weeks? How many men will it kill before then?" He grunted, disgusted, and turned from her. He waved her off, "Leave. Tend to your legal issues. I'll let you know when I've signed his death certificate."

She growled, "He isn't dead yet-"

Jake spun around, hands gripping the side of the table, eyes cold and dark as they flashed at her. She felt her heart drop into her stomach and then her feet, almost as if she'd faint. She couldn't even look at the man. Vivian finally picked up, after Claire calling twice, but Claire hung up on her.

Jake snorted, giving her a disgusted look. "No," he looked back to the man, the other nurse taking notes in his chart. Claire backed up towards the door, tears brimming her eyes. No. She couldn't cry. People got hurt all the time here. It wasn't unusual. She had this..contained.

He looked back over his shoulder as she stumble through the door. "No, he's isn't, Claire. But he will be."