Green Fields: Incubation Page 3

  “I didn’t know you were working in the pharmaceutical industry.”

  I had to admit, I’d never asked about his job, but between how he wore his black hair short and the tattoo on his right bicep, I’d figured he was ex military, maybe working for a civilian contractor now.

  “I don’t,” he replied, his gaze dropping down to my chest, presumably to the ID badge that was affixed to the pocket of my lab coat—spelling out my name, Brianna Lewis, PhD—because I couldn't think of any other reason why he would ogle the goods that I kept neatly stored away. Unlike in cheap porn flicks, working in a lab didn’t really do a lot in terms of sexy outfits. Most days I even wore a sports bra because of the added comfort and lack of wires that could poke distractingly into parts of me that, same as my nose, I couldn't scratch or readjust while my hands had to stay as clean as possible.

  “Is that a periodic table of elements?” he inquired. Looking down, I was reminded of which ill-conceived notion of science humor I'd picked as today's outfit.

  Smirking, I pulled the lapels of my coat apart to let him get a look at the print on the shirt.

  “Yeah, go ahead, make me feel like an exhibitionist,” I joked, just a little bit self-conscious. That my libido didn’t mind about that notion, I ignored. It was exactly what he'd guessed, only spiced up by the loving words of, “Chemists do it on the table—periodically.” If Elena Glover ever got a look at it, she'd have a field day with me. Then again, she seldom ventured into the labs, and for evaluation and training days I usually toned it down a bit.

  “Very clever,” he remarked, still looking genuinely amused.

  “Strike! Now my undoubtedly sharper-than-average intellect has been validated! You really know how to charm a girl!”

  His eyes told me quite candidly that he, in fact, did, but I wasn't fazed by it. Or not enough for me to let it show. I hoped. After all, I had first-hand experience of his… talents. No further charming required.

  “Speaking of work… I’d better get back to my cells. They can get oddly demanding at times. And I shouldn't keep you from your Corporate Barbie and Ken meeting, as you clearly don’t intend to answer my question.”

  That got me a different kind of smile, both feral and alluring. As much as his sudden appearance here rubbed me the wrong way, I wouldn’t have minded dragging him off to some empty seminar room this very second.

  “Sound advice. Some things shouldn't be kept waiting.” He turned away then, not quite dismissing me, but halted before his back was to me completely. “A word of advice in return?”

  “Oh, yes, please!” I gushed, blinking my eyes coquettishly at him while offering a truly insipid smile.

  “Drink that coffee quickly.”

  That was not what I'd expected, but considering what that brew turned into once it got cold, it made a lot of sense.

  “Guess I will!” I called after him, shaking my head at the same time. I got a vaguely pornographic grin in return before he pulled on his professional calm mask from before. Nate—a very strange man, but then he had to be if he chose to bump uglies with me. Across the atrium I caught Elena Glover glowering at me, which made grinning brightly and saluting her with my cup even more rewarding.

  Taking a tentative sip, I turned to the stairwell I'd come down before and made my way back upstairs. In passing I smiled at one of the janitors who was taking advantage of the almost abandoned hallways, pushing a cart for collecting waste before him. He nodded in return.

  The first explosion hit the complex just as I ducked into a supply room for a shortcut, pitching me forward and sending the remainder of the coffee scalding over my hand.

  Guess I should have heeded Nate’s advice.

  Chapter 2

  Shock can be a wonderful thing. It distorts reality and makes you realize just how easily your perception is manipulated.

  I could tell with certainty that it was a series of seven explosions that rocked the building down to its foundations and consequently sent glass beakers and bottles flying and breaking everywhere, but I didn't know how I ended up in the middle of the room, huddled under my coat in a sea of glass shards, my right hand aching from the residual coffee burn. Pain in my knee gave me a hint, and when I looked at my stinging palm, I saw light scrapes there, as if it had been dragged fast along some uneven surface.

  Disoriented, I tried to get up, but a half-hearted stagger was all I was capable of. Then my mind cleared a little, and the sense that my head was swathed in a cocoon of cotton dissolved into a distinct ringing in my ears. Aftershocks from an intense sonic assault—something like that might happen when half a building detonated, I figured.

  The air around me was full of dust motes that started to settle slowly, and when I tried again, I managed to climb to my feet as my inner ear reclaimed its sense of balance. Confusion was still at the front of my mind, but the rising sense of dread crawling up my spine made my stomach flip.

  What the fuck had just happened?

  I didn't even consider natural causes. I'd never been in an earthquake, but those had definitely been man-made explosions.

  Were we under attack?

  The notion was so ridiculous that I laughed, although it came out more like a strangled cough. We were smack in the middle of the U.S. of fucking A. There was no way anyone in the world could just send a bomb down on us—besides, I doubted that the explosions had come from above or outside. I might be wrong, but they'd felt like they'd originated from somewhere below me. That left terrorism as the obvious second option, but why would terrorists attack a biotech company? Sure, genetic engineering and vaccine production were multi-billion-dollar markets, but from what I remembered, the company had only recently broken even, considering the investments that had been required to found it and get everything running smoothly. Research was a costly business, and contrary to other fields of industry, the work force didn't come that cheap, either. There couldn't be more than a hundred people left inside the building, so it wasn't even a good soft target, compared to any mall in the country.

  So what was going on?

  And what Nate had to do with that I didn’t even want to consider.

  More ludicrous ideas were amassing to swamp my mind, but I shoved them away. I needed to think now, not lose time playing guessing games. The dust stung my eyes and made them water, but a quick rub took care of that problem.

  Looking around, I tried to reorient myself. One of the shelves behind me was blocking the door I'd entered through, so I tried the other direction first, only to find the second door locked. Cursing under my breath, I reached into the pocket of my coat for my keys, but then remembered that I'd left them on my workspace. In the lab. Fantastic.

  Turning back around, I waded through the trash now littering every available lower surface, moving gingerly to minimize the risk of cutting myself further. When I reached the shelf, I gave it a halfhearted push, but it didn't budge. I wondered for a moment if I should cry for help, but doubted that anyone would check this room when security protocols stated that people should use their designated exit routes in case of emergency. Getting myself out on my own was likely the safest bet.

  Studying the shelf, I realized that the problem was two-fold. One of the other shelves was partially leaning on it, making it impossible for me to shove it back where it belonged. The other problem was that only half of its contents had spilled out—the rest was still weighing down the steel frame.

  It took a lot more time than it should have to empty both shelves one more or less destroyed object at a time. I started with the ruined glassware, using a pack of hand towels to get the shards out of the way. Then came books and boxes filled with back issues of magazines, followed by other lab supplies like plastic tubes. And yet more plastic tubes. After the forth box of them I started to wonder if I'd stumbled over a hidden cache of sorts.

  And then, oh wonder, I managed to drag the last two tanks of 96% alcohol solution off the shelf, the muscles in my arms and lower back screaming. I straightened and to
ok a deep breath, and after a last glance at the added chaos my efforts had created behind me, went for the frames of the shelves.

  Five pain- and frustration-filled minutes later, I managed to pull the door open just enough for me to push myself through.

  Outside, chaos reigned.

  Compared to the destruction inside the supply room, the hallway looked almost undisturbed at a first glance. Down the corridor, a ceiling panel had been dislodged and was now hanging haphazardly suspended from a single hinge, but besides that there was only the omnipresent settling dust. Four doors down I saw Bruce, one of our division's techs, leaning against the wall, but he looked okay, a frown of confusion on his face. I tried calling to him, but my voice didn't even sound like anything human in my ringing ears—I doubted that he had fared better. His utter lack of reaction underscored that guess. Instead of trying to resort to interpretive dancing for communication, I went the other way. We had a first-aid kit in our lab, and as it was closer than the atrium, I decided to patch myself up now before being ignored when people with actual medical emergencies should get treated first.

  While I was aware that I had dust and residual shards of glass in my hair that only came out reluctantly, the cuts on my palm had already stopped bleeding, and the light burn on the back of my hand was likely only visible to me anyway. Belatedly I realized that I should just have stuck it under cold water, but I had other priorities right now than a small ouchie like that. And if the damage to the building hadn't ruined the faucets, there would be running water in the lab, too.

  I vowed to myself that once I found out what was going on here, I'd check on my cells next, but the way they were packed into the incubator, I doubted that more than a little medium spillage had happened. Of course I would have to destroy the entire batch, seeing as ground shaking detonations kind of screwed up standard protocol conditions, but with luck I wouldn't have to wipe down the inside of the incubators.

  Reaching the corridor just outside my lab, I felt like my hearing was starting to actually work again, judging from the sound of raised voices and the hammering of feet hitting the floor that I thought came from the general direction of the atrium. I briefly wondered if I'd sustained any permanent damage, but chose not to dwell on it until I had a chance to talk to someone more qualified about that. And not to mention find out what was going on.

  With over three hundred separate labs, double that in storage rooms, and cell culture labs on top of it, the complex was a true labyrinth that took most people months to learn to navigate properly. I'd been working for Green Fields Biotech for over two years now, and I still got lost sometimes when I was forced to stray from my usual corner of the building. Pretty much the only parts of the complex that had a clear-cut layout were the atrium and the biosafety level three and four labs—underground in the adjacent building—but when you were dealing with visitors or highly infectious—not just potentially lethal—material alike, it was common sense not to addle anyone's minds any further with architecture.

  Thinking about the hot labs made me grow cold instantly. There was a reason why they were housed underground and in a separate building where everything was reinforced to the highest standards of building security. When I'd gotten my initial training for BSL-3 and BSL-4 labs, I'd marveled at the sheer number of fail-safes that were calculated to withstand earth quakes, tsunamis, and meteorite impacts without anyone inside getting harmed, or, likely not even noticing that the world outside was quickly going to hell.

  Had anyone been working down there today, and now found themselves locked in with a caved-in connective tunnel?

  The idea alone made me want to hurl, and my hands started to shake before I could still them. There was a reason why I was working on the analytic end of the experiments now, where the worst that could happen on a daily basis was dry skin on my hands from all the alcohol and antiseptic used for disinfection.

  I told myself forcefully that it wasn't me down there, and right now I had bigger concerns. Like finding a first-aid kit and a bathroom, and getting to the atrium. In that order.

  A few deep breaths and I felt remotely like myself again, ready to tackle the problem at hand. My knees were still a little weak but fully functional as I speed-walked over to my lab. When I looked over my shoulder, Bruce was no longer standing in the corridor, but that didn't come as a surprise. Most people who worked here—at least on the lab floors—were very capable, and it didn't take a lot to find the next exit. Unless, of course, you were me and preferred gallivanting through the building on semi-useless quests like unnecessary coffee runs.

  The lab was just as I'd left it hours ago before heading into cell culture, only now there was glass and overturned furniture everywhere. Except for me, it was empty.

  By then the back of my hand had gone numb, and I decided that I was done feeling sorry for myself. I rummaged around for the first-aid kit, but when I found only a huge roll of gauze inside and no antiseptics, I decided that plain water would do just as well. The tap was still working, and I gritted my teeth as I cleaned up the shallow cuts. I doubted that there would be scars.

  I left the useless first-aid kit on the corner of my workstation that wasn't littered with glass and soaked with spilled liquids. The lab techs would have a field day preparing all the buffers anew once the cleaning crew had taken away what couldn't be salvaged. I just hoped that the company would pay both groups overtime aplenty. Policy likely dictated that by Monday morning everything would resume as if nothing had ever happened.

  The only thing left for me to do was make my way to the atrium now, which I should have done fifteen minutes ago.

  I couldn't say why, but once back out in the corridor I peered into the labs I passed. Maybe I was simply curious or maybe it was just starting to dawn on me that this was a really scary situation, and the need for human interaction and reassurance grew with every step I took. That was probably the reason why I felt instantly elated when I saw a security guard step out of the small kitchen down the hallway instead of wondering what he was doing up here.

  I found myself beaming a breathless smile at him as I hastened my step, and after an initial moment of critically checking me out, he returned it with a nod.

  “You okay?” he asked, his voice holding a familiar light accent, something Slavic. It was then that I finally recognized him—Joey? Johnny? Luke? I simply couldn't remember, but he was one of the regular guys at the security checkpoint downstairs. When I was close enough to read his name tag, which read “Andrej,” I remembered that he was the guard I frequently shared my coffee breaks with at the ill-fated vending machines. He'd once told me that he came from Chechnya initially, and his wife was part of the cleaning or cafeteria staff. Very hard-working people, happy to be exploited by corporations like Green Fields Biotech.

  “Yes, just confused,” I offered. “Do you know what happened?”

  He shook his head but seemed distracted. Likely he was no better off than me. Or maybe he simply didn't understand me yet; if he'd been downstairs, which I guessed might have been closer to the origin of the detonations, his hearing might still be compromised, while I could already discern single words, if vaguely. I doubted that he had any real emergency situation training, and signing on as a lowly security guard couldn't have let him expect to find himself in a warzone.

  Thinking along those lines made me come up with another explanation for the frown on his face.

  “Is your wife working today? Are you looking for her?”

  His frown deepened, and almost as an afterthought he pointed at his ears and shook his head.

  “Marta, your wife?” I shouted, feeling just a little stupid.

  “Oh, no, at home today, sick day,” he supplied, then looked around me down the corridor. “We should go back to the atrium. People will know more there.”

  For a moment I got the weird feeling that he was laying on his accent more heavily than usual, but that was likely another sign of stress. I could barely hold my thoughts together in my
own language; communicating in another when you were still more deaf than not must have been hard.

  “Sure. Did you find anyone else still on this floor?”

  He shook his head and motioned for me to follow, either because he hadn't seen anyone, or he was tired of playing guessing games of what I might have said. Sighing inside, I fell into step behind him, telling myself that he'd probably checked all the other labs already and I was just postponing the reasonable course of action. He didn't seem to be in a hurry, so I figured that whatever had happened hadn't threatened the general stability of the building.

  We were just crossing a smaller corridor that ran parallel to the open-sided glass gallery around the atrium when the small voice at the back of my mind, usually reserved for sitting in the driver's seat of my paranoia bouts, came alive.

  Why wasn't the alarm going off?

  Explosions of whatever kind should trigger sirens all through the complex, in most cases coupled with the sprinkler system activating itself. I still remembered vividly when a couple of months ago the alarm had been triggered late on a Sunday night when one of the acid tanks in the basement had sprung a leak. I'd been soaked through and through by the time I had made it outside, and the wailing of the sirens had given me quite the headache.

  Whatever the reason for the explosions, the alarm system should have been working full force. So why wasn't it?

  Once I started wondering about that, other small details sprung to the foreground. The emergency lighting that should have illuminated the quickest escape routes was still turned off. Every third door in the corridors was a security door that should have shut itself at the initial triggering of the alarm system to prevent fire and aerosols from spreading. The ventilation system was still running although it should have been shut off for the very same reason. And why was it so damn quiet only twenty minutes after someone attempted to bomb us into the stone age?

  I was just about to try to ask Andrej about the alarm system when we passed a crossing corridor, and I caught the barest glimpse through the far glass wall into the atrium. It only lasted the two seconds it took us to reach the other side of the hallway, but that was more than enough.