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    jagged bursts of pain through his head. He tried to turn away from it, but found he could
    not.
    "He's stable," Dr. Dean pronounced after checking the computer readings. She
    straightened and looked toward the gallery. "No intracranial bleeding."
    "Then proceed!" a woman from the viewing box commanded.
    Dr. Dean frowned. "Second syringe."
    Cree's eyes went wide. Were they going to put him through that hell a second time? He
    opened his mouth to protest, but Bridget's cool, efficient hands were once more at his
    mouth and the rubber wedge being inserted.
    "Don't!" was all he got out before his jaw was pressed shut around the bitter rubber.
    Then Hell came up to greet him.
    Kamerone Cree's whole life, such as it had been, passed before his eyes and he tried to
    spit out the wedge that was jammed so tightly between his lips. He tried to get up,
    irrational fury and terror filling him as he realized he could not. He felt the cold swab of
    the disinfectant, the prick of the needle and the ungodly heat washing over him with
    blinding speed.
    Bridget's brows met as the convulsions began so quickly she barely had time to brace
    the Reaper's head. She saw his eyes roll back until only the whites could be seen. His
    body went absolutely rigid as though he was in the throes of electroshock. He shuddered
    violently as he passed quickly from one state of assault therapy to the other. She felt the
    intense heat of his high fever, the sweat pouring down his temples. The convulsions that
    wracked his body—despite the security of the thick metal restraints—lifted him partially
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    off the treatment table. His groans and muted shrieks gave evidence of the absolute terror
    under which he was existing. She could only imagine the horrors that were invading his
    mind, driving him to the brink of madness.
    "Stage Three complete."
    Cree's body shook and he came crashing down, falling past the jutting rocks toward
    which he had been plunging. Vaguely, in some sane part of his jumbled mind, he realized
    the sequence of impending destruction had been altered: the drowning came before the
    falling this time. His mental processes were so scrambled, he had trouble latching onto a single coherent thought even as it entered his mind.
    "Stage Four complete."
    Bridget re-wet the cloth and wiped his face, his neck, under his arms where the thick
    brown hair was matted with perspiration. She put the cloth in the water again, noticing
    that he had awakened and was watching her. He followed her movements so blindly, he
    reminded her of a little lost dog trailing hopefully behind someone who had been kind to
    it.
    "Third syringe."
    Cree whimpered: a lost, hopeless, pitiful thrust of breath from his tortured mouth. He
    cringed away from the wedge as it was brought to his lips, but he didn't have the strength
    to deny it entrance. He tasted the cold slime of his own saliva clinging to it, gagged at the feel of it between his teeth and down his throat. The gentle hand that cupped his chin
    protectively was cool against his heated flesh as once more the needle pierced his flesh.
    Dr. Dean did not have the needle all the way out of his arm before the convulsions
    started again. She stepped back, her face filled with concern as a trickle of blood eased
    down Cree's neck.
    "Left ear drum rupture," Dorrie remarked, noting it in the computer.
    "Both," one of the other women corrected. She gasped. "My god! His blood is black!"
    Bridget looked down at the thick ebony blood dripping to the stainless steel table
    beneath the Reaper's head. She was having a hard time keeping his head still and was
    aware that he had bitten entirely through the protective wedge as the computer
    announced:
    "Stage Two complete. Flat line!"
    Cree felt something sharp drive deeply through his breastbone and shrieked like a
    madman beneath Bridget's hold. Pain