Title: Shall We Play A Game?
Author: FraidyCat
Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind. Ditto the "downtown Y".
A/N: This is an INTERACTIVE reader-influenced story. As such, The Cat cannot be blamed for anything. Ever.
And Now, Back To Our Tale…
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Chapter Twelve: Children Are Our Future
Dawn wiped her sweaty palms on the thighs of her jeans and stood several feet behind Cracker, nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "It's pretty old," she said, venturing an opinion. "Isn't this from that construction site Joe hit about six months before the Presidio?"
Cracker was still holding a dusty plastic tarp. He barely glanced at her as he threw it into the corner of the storage unit. "Yeah," he confirmed. "So?"
He stepped closer to the stack of boxes, pulling a screwdriver from his waistband and beginning to pry the lid off the one on top. Dawn backed further away impulsively. "How long does that stuff stay…stable?" she asked.
Cracker laughed harshly, still working on the wooden box. "Stay stable? This shit never even met the concept, Baby. It was dangerous two years ago, and it's dangerous now." A soft sound of dismay escaped Dawn and he glanced back at her over his shoulder. He spared her an exaggerated wink and grinned before he turned his head back toward the box. "You're such a girl sometimes," he teased fondly. "I'm just yankin' ya." With a grunt he finally wrenched the lid from the box and tossed it in the corner, onto the tarp. His dark eyes glinted as he peered inside. "I feel like we took down a Play-Doh® factory."
Dawn crept up behind him, skittish. "What?"
He shifted a little so she could move up and stand beside him and get a better view. "Look," he gestured with his chin. "It's still…" – he reached out a finger and poked the top layer, and Dawn gasped, almost tripping over her own feet as she backed away again – "…malleable, after all this time." He shook his head once and then contemplated the other boxes that had been stored beneath the tarp. "Help me find the blasting caps," he ordered. "Joe got them first, from another construction site, so they're probably on the bottom."
"Cracker…"
He turned at the uncharacteristic fear in her voice. He held out a hand, his smile more tender this time. "It's okay, Baby. This is why the Committee voted for C-4. It's much more stable than TNT, less sensitive to shock, and heat. It's safe to handle. Relatively."
She rolled her eyes. "Relatively."
He grinned again. "Plus, its consistency makes it easy to mold, so we can put it right where we want it. Insert a blasting cap – with a remote detonator, of course – apply some energy to kick off a chemical reaction, and BAM!" He slapped his hands together, and Dawn jumped, startled.
He laughed at her and she reddened furiously, tossing her blond hair over her shoulder. She took one step forward. "We need to meet up with the rest of leadership. The target should be identified with a consensus vote."
Cracker shook his head. "We are leadership, Baby. You, me, Patty. Aaron. Marcus." He approached her slowly, his eyes mesmerizing and bottomless. "Planet Green has been getting away from us, from its roots. We're in danger of becoming mainstream – look at Andi, and others who have left. We have society's attention now, with the Brucella. The five of us can re-establish ourselves as the cadre of power with this."
She was simultaneously tempted – and leery. Sure, she and Cracker had been the beginning of Planet Green – along with Joe, and a few others – but they had always welcomed and solicited new recruits. She had supported Cracker when he had surprised her earlier by ostracizing Sarah, but the experience had left her wary. "What do you want to do?" she asked quietly.
He smiled. "They've refused to listen to reason for years. They insist on killing this planet, and everyone on it, slowly and painfully. I say we show them exactly what they're doing – but with more mercy. We'll kill the children quickly."
The tiny hairs on Dawn's arms stood at attention. "Children?" she repeated.
He nodded. "The downtown Y," he said. "The day-care center is at the North end, segregated from the main facilities. You and I go in as parents checking the place out for our kid. I'll wear a suit – you carry a purse. While we're there, you have to use the bathroom. Mold the C-4 around the back of the toilet."
Dawn raised her hand, protesting. "Wait! Wait…why me?"
Cracker frowned, growing impatient. "Because it won't look right if I carry the purse, bitch."
In spite of herself, she laughed. "So we…detonate…from a safe distance away?"
This time Cracker rolled his eyes. "Well, of course, you idiot! What would be the point of blowing up our own damn selves?"
A thrill of anticipation traveled through Dawn with the intensity of an orgasm, and she threw herself on Cracker. "Oh, Baby," she crooned, rubbing against him provocatively. "You're a freakin' genius."
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To say that Amita was taken aback by Larry's pronouncement and the article in The Times would be an understatement. One minute she was sleeping in the car and the next, she was sitting in a small hospital lab waiting room. She was an intelligent woman, but she could hardly think. Everything was so unexpected, and had happened so fast. She wanted to talk to Charlie, who was lying ill in a hospital two hours away, according to Larry – but they were in a restricted cell area of the hospital. She had awoken in a thick fog, the nap having done nothing to rejuvenate her, and now her head was pounding. "This is insane," she muttered, shifting in the hard plastic chair.
Larry patted her gently on the arm and murmured comfortingly. "It's quite unanticipated," he agreed. A young mother carrying an infant sat down next to him and Larry scooted closer to Amita. "I must say, I did not expect quite this long a wait. I shudder to think what the L.A. hospitals must look like."
Amita sighed and lifted one hand to rub her forehead. "Did Don say anything about Alan? My head is going to explode."
Larry glanced at her unhappily. "No, I'm sorry. I was so shocked, I did not think to ask after Alan." He made a move as if to rise from his chair. "Would you like me to see if I can procure some Tylenol®, or aspirin?"
Amita shook her head, rising unsteadily to her own feet. "I have some in my purse," she answered, gripping the handle as if for dear life. "I think I'll just visit the ladies' room. I'll take some there."
Larry half-rose anyway, as a gentleman should, and a wry smile played at Amita's mouth. She tried to lighten the atmosphere. "Save my place," she teased, and Larry finally smiled in return. When he settled back in his chair and laid a hand protectively over the vacant seat now next to him, she departed in a slightly staggering sway for the public women's room she remembered spying just down the hall.
She pushed into her destination and veered to the sinks, placing her purse on the eggshell-white Formica® countertop. She angled the faucet toward "cool" and held her hands under the cold water, sighing in appreciation. Leaning over a little, Amita splashed some of the water over her face; then she cupped her hands and captured some of the liquid, bringing it to her mouth to slurp greedily. She let the water continue running as she straightened painfully, sore muscles protesting. She held a hand in front of the automatic towel dispenser, and then ripped off the sheet offered. It was small, but large enough to blot her face daintily. She then obtained another to more thoroughly dry her hands, before she started digging around in her purse.
She decided to extricate the small bottle of Tylenol® and a dollar bill, if she had one; there was a machine further down the hall, near the elevator. She had seen a photograph of a can of apple juice when they had arrived, and had been craving it ever since. She pulled the pills out of her purse, followed by a half-circle protractor. She placed them on the counter, as she did the dry erase marker that followed. The stick of chalk she liked to keep for Charlie to worry between his fingers when he was particularly preoccupied, was just shoved to the side. Another flat packet of pills she removed, seeing a tell-tale glint of green beneath them.
And then, her fingers let go of the dollar bill and the purse clattered unnoticed to the floor. In surrealistic slow motion, tilting her head as if she were the RCA-Victor® dog listening to a phonographic record, she picked up the flat packet again. She studied the plain, purple plastic. She turned it over, and regarded the holes pushed through the back. Then she looked at herself in the mirror.
All the pills were missing that should be.
They were 92 to 99 percent effective.
Eight out of every 100 women who used them correctly would get pregnant anyway.
Her eyes widened almost comically and reflected back at her from the mirror. She swallowed once; then swallowed again, her mouth suddenly very, very dry.
She didn't even hear herself say it.
"Oh, shit."
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A/N: It's short, but it's the best an old woman can do…