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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FACING MY REQUIEM
*
However far-reaching our intellectual achievements
And however advanced our knowledge of Creation
Without faith and a sense of our own spirituality
There is only isolation and despair
And the human race is a lost cause.
-Jane Hawking-
Donning her lab coat, she slides open a small incubation shelter within the confines of the basement. Reaching in, she draws back with a tray in her hands, housing an assortment of fluids encased in small tubules. Turning away from the cooling shelter, she at last faces the examination table not ten feet away. Summons a settling breath.
The infected host lies resiliently contained atop, restrained by thick wrist and ankle cuffs, which are in turn grounded by steel chains. The creature is medically linked to a variety of IVs and vital monitors, heavily sedated. It wears a tank top–stained and sullied from the underground life it's led, and a dark pair of shorts. Its translucent skin pulses with adrenaline even in slumber, breathing rapid and chest heaving at an extreme rate.
Booth had always labeled their diagnosis in much simpler terms. The wheel is turning, but the hamster is dead.
The machine monitoring heart rate never rests. There's hardly any pause between the mechanic bleeps. Coming to stand over the troubled creature, Brennan's astute eyes scan over its body, calculative and searching. "Subject is female." She speaks for the recording. "Likely eighteen to twenty years of age. Calmative only sedates effectively six times human dose." Blue eyes flicker to the monitors, and she recites the readings. "Core temperature one hundred and six degrees Fahrenheit, pulse two hundred BPM. Respiration elevated. PA02. Three hundred percent of normal."
Proceeding forward, she delves into the pocket of her lab coat, brandishing a small flashlight. She gently presses back an eyelid of the host, inspecting the outcome carefully with the tiny beam. The sickly gray iris flutters back and forth under the light, but remains otherwise unresponsive. The skin beneath her gloved fingers is moist and overtly unhealthy.
"Pupils fully dilated. Non-reactive to light." Disposing of the flashlight, she retrieves a security wand-sized ultraviolet light emitter, switching it on to drag it over the close interval above the forearm. Under the bluish tint, the flesh blisters immediately, sizzling in the quiet space.
"Extreme reaction to UV exposure." Setting aside the emitter, she stands rigidly over the specimen. "Symptoms and tissue samples confirm that the subject is infected with KV." Turning back to the tray she's collected, she takes up a small tubule and fits it neatly to a ready syringe. "Vaccine test. GA-series 391, Compound Six."
Placing the needle gently against the crux of the elbow, she battles the urge to hold her breath. Feels her stomach knot with stunning severity.
"Commencing human trials."
The clear liquid slowly injects into the bloodstream, the blue veins plainly visible through the female's skin. All she can do now is wait.
And she needn't wait long. Over a gradual period, results slowly begin to reveal themselves. The most obvious change is in the creature's breathing level, which has begun steadily reducing speed. Brennan, trying to suppress her growing eagerness, glances at the monitor, translating the readings quickly. "Respiration slowing," she says, spark in her tone. "Pulse one-ninety. Core temperature… one-oh-five… one-oh-four and decreasing…"
Through her clinical façade, a trace of excitement betrays her objectiveness. Blue eyes are alight. A smile threatens the corners of her mouth.
Yes. Oh, yes!
"We may have something here–"
At that moment, the infected host lets out a piercing shriek and lurches upwards from the table, lunging at Brennan and baring its blood-stained teeth. She jumps back, startled, and swiftly draws the pistol from her hip holster underneath her lab coat. Taking aim and a quick step back, she hesitates. Can only watch as it thrashes and bellows atop the examination table.
The chains restraining it rattle loudly and slam against their absolute limits, the leather straps whining, hissing, as they stretch to accommodate the new resistance. Brennan slowly lowers her weapon, despite the episode unfolding before her. Her expression is almost tired, but unmistakably saddened. Her eyes hold a moisture that will not fall, won't develop any further, but emits a cheerless shine in the low light of the cramped room.
A silence clouds her ears past the cyclical shrieks which quickly morph into one prolonged outburst as the female Infected tips its head and screams. Writhes on the table. Agony, madness.
All at once then, it falls still. Silence.
The monitor in the background flat-lines.
She watches over the poor creature. Features are stoic, though her eyes reveal every pain, every new chink in her armor. In the back of her mind, she hears the door slam open and the heavy footfalls on the stairs leading down. She doesn't need to turn to know he's there. Here, beside her. His own weapon drawn in her defense without forethought, pure instinct. She doesn't bother to admonish him for setting foot in the basement.
If doesn't matter anymore, anyway. There's nothing here to harm him. Blinking slowly, she barely hears, registers, her own voice. "GA-series 391… ineffective on humans." It falls flat and makes the air thick, weighs it down. Corrupts her strength of will. And she's a lost cause.
She wishes she could unleash her anger unto her surroundings–destroy the equipment with a collection of well-placed strikes from her skilled appendages, or an easily obtained cylindrical instrument. Anything. Knock over all the shelving units, perhaps. Wipe them clean with a single sweep of her arm. Scream, cry, curse. But she doesn't.
She can't summon the energy.
She only stares at the now dead thing occupying her table. This thing she's just murdered, however inadvertently. A moment passes, and she feels his hand rest on her shoulder. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't have to. She can feel his emotion through the simplicity of his touch. His skin radiates warmth through the fabric of her lab coat and shirt. Her thoughts drift in her solitary reverie of failure.
She feels drained.
She doesn't cry, doesn't scream. Only stares, and breathes. Exists. Goes on living.
And while she continues to breathe, another has already died.
"Still no cure," she whispers into the quiet.
October 2nd, 2009
She watches him, devastated. The sorrowful ache filling her from within.
And she waits. She knows what is right, knows he is only doing what is just. Yet the pain won't leave her. She can't escape the tears that threaten to fall. She feels overpowering guilt over what she has done–the lives she has destroyed–and she knows she has every obligation to accept the responsibility of her mistakes. But somehow, that rational piece of her mind is less dominant. Forgetful and negligent of this duty, and she only feels afraid.
Has he betrayed her? Her shining knight?
Of course he has. He is betraying her at this very moment. She can think of no image more finalizing than him with the muzzle of a high-powered rifle aimed at her. Knowing what is inevitable, she tries to summon the courage which normally is within close reach of her grasp. But it has abandoned her now.
Nevertheless, she raises her chin and takes a breath. Trying to be strong for him, if not for herself. She knows what he must do can't come easy for him. He'd sworn he would never betray her, hurt her.
But is he truly? Is that what he is doing? Or is he simply saving her? From herself. From what she has done.
She knows she would rather it be him, if anyone. It hurts less, knowing that she was surrendering to him. She can do that. If it were any other, her pride might conflict with her nobility, and rather coincide with her instinct to flee. But with him, she remains steady.
She remains grounded. Just as always, he is her anchor.
Of all the times he's saved her, pulled her in the nick of time from the claws of death, it seems only fitting that he should be the one to silence her.
Her guardian reaper. It's tragically poetic.
She knows he will hate himself. Wishes that he won't. She wills him to remember that, sometimes, a single life needed to be sacrificed for a greater cause. He could be saving so many…
She steels her gaze for him, trying to convey her acceptance. Make the damage a little less. Even so, a part of her still falters. Flinches. She hopes he's unable to read that.
In the back of her mind, she worries if it will hurt. Trying to still her trembling form–to be brave–she fights against the fear that suddenly plagues her. What will it be like? Will it take long? She doesn't want to die. What she'd once labeled as human instinct, she disregards now in her plight. Her lower lip quavers tearfully in sickening anticipation as she waits for him to do what is necessary.
Necessary, she tells him with her eyes.
She waits for the deafening shot.
In that moment, she hopes that maybe he is right about God and heaven. She doesn't want to just disappear. Cease from everything. Yet at the same time, she pleads with every morsel of her being that he is wrong. Because if he is right, she's certain her soul will not rise. She doesn't deserve paradise. Not after what she's done. All the deaths she's responsible for.
She watches him slide the bolt of his rifle forward, and thinks she might have seen him blink tears away. He's distanced too far from her to be sure. Despite the situation, she trusts him. He would not have her suffer.
He would make it clean, quick. Painless.
As if he were speaking right beside her, she can almost hear his voice, soothing.
You won't feel a thing, Temperance. I promise. Don't be afraid.
Don't be afraid. Tragically comforted by this, she waits for darkness to overtake her. And before she hears the sharp discharge of the sniper rifle, she wonders if he will forgive her for being so easy to find. If he'll forgive himself. She hopes he will. She knows she has already forgiven him.
And she doesn't stop loving him.
She loves him. Booth. She loves him.
Suddenly fearless, she confronts the desire to shout it to everyone she knows–anyone who will listen. She's in love with her best friend. The revelation is wasted on her alone. He needs to know. She must tell him.
But then she remembers that she is about to die.
My will shall shape the future.
Whether I fail or succeed
Shall be no man's doing but my own.
I am the force. I can clear any obstacle before me
Or I can be lost in the maze.
My choice, my responsibility.
Win or lose, only I hold the key to my destiny.
-Elaine Maxwell-