Ch.16: The Morse Code

The diluted Rocuronium hits my bloodstream.

It's subtle at first. A faint tingling in my toes. A twitch in my thigh muscle. The heavy, leaden blanket that has suffocated me for two weeks begins to lift, just a fraction.

I am not free. I am not strong. But I am no longer a statue.

Greta is back. She enters the room with the frantic energy of a woman who is terrified she made a mistake. She checks the door twice before approaching the bed.

"The camera feed is on a loop," she whispers, her eyes darting to the lens in the corner. "I hacked the DVR. We have five minutes before the timestamp glitch resets."

She leans over me.

"Can you move? Can you talk?"

I try to speak. My throat works, but my vocal cords are still sluggish. All that comes out is a dry, rasping click.

I focus on my hand. My right hand. The one that smashed the glass.

I lift it.

It trembles violently, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, but it rises three inches off the mattress.

Greta gasps. She grabs my hand, squeezing it.

"Oh god. Oh god, it worked."

I don't have time for celebration. I have five minutes.

I pull my hand free from hers. It falls back onto the metal rail of the bed.

*Clink.*

I tap again.

*Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.*

Four taps. H-E-L-P.

Greta stares at me. "I don't... I don't know Morse code. Just blink. One for yes, two for no."

I shake my head—a tiny, barely perceptible movement. No. Yes/No is too slow. Too limited. I need to convey complex information.

I lift my finger. I point to the tray table. There is a stylus there, used for the digital charts.

Greta follows my gaze. She grabs the stylus.

"You want to write?"

I tap once. *Yes.*

She holds up her notepad. She places the stylus in my hand.

My fingers curl around it. It feels thick, clumsy. My grip strength is nonexistent. I can barely hold it upright.

Greta positions the pad under my hand.

"Write," she urges. "What do I do?"

I focus. I lock every remaining neuron onto the tip of that stylus.

I scratch a letter. It looks like a spider scurrying across the page.

**S.**

Then another.

**A.**

**V.**

**E.**

My hand spasms. The stylus slips.

Greta stares at the letters. "Save? Save who? You?"

I shake my head.

I grip the stylus again. I grit my teeth.

**S.**

**O.**

**N.**

Greta freezes. She stares at the word. The blood drains from her face.

"Leo?" she whispers.

I tap the rail. *Yes.*

"You want me to save Leo?" She looks at me, confusion warring with hope. "How? He's in the East Wing. It's bio-locked. Retinal scan only."

I start writing again. This is harder. Longer.

**E.**

**Y.**

**E.**

"Eye?" Greta frowns. "What eye?"

I point to my own face. To the raw, weeping socket where my right eye used to be.

Greta recoils. "No... I can't look at it."

I tap the rail. Hard. *Look.*

She forces herself to look. She stares at the empty, healing cavity.

"He took it," she whispers. "For her."

I write again.

**K.**

**E.**

**Y.**

Greta shakes her head. "I don't understand. Your eye is the key?"

I tap *Yes*.

Aris is a narcissist. But he is also a pragmatist. He built the security system to respond to *his* biometrics. But he also programmed it to respond to *mine*.

Before the "accident," I had full access. My retinal scan opens the lab. It opens the vault. And it opens the East Wing.

But my right eye is gone. It's in Isabella's head.

And Isabella's head is upstairs.

But I still have my left eye.

"My left eye," I try to mouth the words, but only air comes out.

I write.

**L.**

**E.**

**F.**

**T.**

Greta stares at the pad. "Your left eye... it still works?"

I tap *Yes*.

"But I can't take you to the East Wing," she says, panic rising in her voice. "You can't walk. And the alarms..."

I write one more word. The most important word.

**H.**

**A.**

**C.**

**K.**

"Hack?" Greta looks at the server rack in the corner. "I don't know how to hack. I'm a nurse, not IT."

I point to myself.

**I.**

**D.**

**O.**

I ghost-wrote Aris's papers. I managed the clinic's database. I know the override codes because I created them.

I need access to the terminal.

"You want me to bring the keyboard over?" Greta asks.

I tap *Yes*.

She runs to the server rack. The keyboard is on a retractable tray. The cord is long, coiled. She pulls it, stretching it across the room.

It reaches. Just barely. She rests it on my chest.

My hands are heavy. Dead weights.

"Can you type?" she asks.

I look at my fingers. They are pale, trembling.

I lift my right hand. I hover over the keys.

It takes everything I have. I press the 'Enter' key.

The screen on the wall wakes up. **PASSWORD REQUIRED.**

I start to type.

It is agonizingly slow. One key at a time. Hunt and peck with a single, shaking finger.

**J-A-N-U-S.**

Janus. The two-faced god. The name of the project.

**ACCESS GRANTED.**

The screen floods with data. Schematics. Patient logs. Security protocols.

Greta gasps. "You got in."

I navigate to the **FACILITY MAP**.

I find the East Wing. Room 404. **PATIENT: LEO K.**

Status: **CRITICAL.**

Ventilator dependence: **100%**.

Greta sees it. She lets out a choked sob. "He's... he's worse."

I scroll down. I find the medication log.

Aris isn't treating him. He's maintaining him. He's keeping him just sick enough to need the machines, but not sick enough to die. He's farming the boy's illness for leverage.

I navigate to **SECURITY CONTROLS**.

I find the lock for Room 404.

It requires **ADMIN AUTHORIZATION**.

I type in my override code.

**ERROR. BIOMETRIC CONFIRMATION REQUIRED.**

It wants a scan.

I look at the webcam mounted on top of the monitor.

"Lift me up," I rasp. The sound is barely a whisper, but Greta hears it.

She grabs me under the arms. She heaves. I am dead weight, slipping in her grasp, but she is fueled by a mother's desperation.

She drags me up the pillow until my face is level with the camera.

I stare into the lens. I open my left eye as wide as I can.

The red light scans.

**PROCESSING...**

**IDENTITY CONFIRMED: DR. ELENA VANE.**

**LOCK DISENGAGED.**

On the screen, the icon for Room 404 turns from red to green.

Greta drops me back onto the bed. She is weeping. "It opened. It actually opened."

I grab her wrist with my weak, trembling hand. I pull her close.

I pick up the stylus one last time.

**G.**

**O.**

Greta stares at the word. She looks at the door. Then she looks back at me.

"I can't leave you," she whispers. "If I take him... Aris will know. He'll come for you."

I tap the rail.

**G.**

**O.**

She looks at her son's face on the screen. Then she looks at mine.

She kisses my forehead. A swift, wet press of lips against my scarred skin.

"Thank you," she sobs. "Thank you."

She turns and runs.

She leaves the door unlocked.

I watch the monitor. I see Greta sprinting down the hallway upstairs. I see her burst into the East Wing.

I see her run into Room 404.

She scoops the boy up. He is small, frail, connected to tubes. She rips the tubes out. She wraps him in a blanket.

She runs for the back exit.

I watch them disappear into the night.

I am alone.

The door to my cell is unlocked. The keyboard is on my chest.

I have just set a fire.

Now I have to survive the burn.

I hear footsteps upstairs. Heavy. Angry.

Aris has seen the alert.

He is coming.

Greta dropped the syringe on the floor in her haste. It rolled under the bed.

I reach down. My fingers brush the cold plastic.

I grab it.

"You can hear me?"

The voice comes from the doorway.

Aris is standing there. He is holding a tablet. He looks at the unlocked door. He looks at the keyboard on my chest.

He looks at me.

And for the first time, he sees me. Not the object. Not the victim.

The enemy.

Greta dropped the syringe. "You can hear me?"