Read The Prisoner for Free Online
Authors: Carlos J. Cortes
compressions.
Even before the wires supporting Raul had snapped free, he was already releasing the neck ring and tugging at his ear and nose plugs. When the hydraulic arm removed the mouth plug, Raul rolled on the floor as he tore out of the gelatinous mess, lurching heavily from side to side, then crawled toward her.
“Move,” he croaked. “Let’s get this mess off him.”
Good old Raul; no questions. In the short flight over the tank, he’d pressed through his horror and assessed the problem.
Raul pushed both hands under Bastien’s head and jerked the unconscious man to a sitting position to free the net so Laurel could slide it down.
“Take over chest compression. I’ll do the mouth-to-mouth,” Laurel said.
“How long has he been like this?” Raul started pounding away at a good rhythm.
Laurel had lost count of the maneuvers. “Six or seven minutes.” Keeping his airway free, she breathed hard into his mouth. It tasted of hibernation fluid—metallic with a hint of sweetness.
Still no reaction. Laurel blew into his lungs again. The window for successful bridging until defibrillation was ten to eighteen minutes. They were running out of time.
Raul compressed Bastien’s chest with vigor, eyes darting around.
“Don’t bother. I checked. No defibrillator,” Laurel said.
“Bastards!”
“It would be needless overkill. The machines hoist the meat straight up to revival labs above us. Why should they have emergency equipment around the tanks? This is a clean room, sterile. To handle emergency life support outside the tank, you’d need real people with real germs.”
“What about maintenance?”
“Automatic. Only a major breakdown would bring anybody here through the personnel corridors and service galleries.”
“Which way is the entrance?”
She cocked her head. “Behind me, but you can forget it. Shepherd’s notes were clear; it opens from the other side and won’t work until Russo surfaces and our contact joins us.”
When Raul paused, Laurel lowered her head and tried to breathe life into Bastien’s inert body. Raul continued pushing and heaving. Her mind raced. The machine would pluck Eliot Russo from the tank any minute now. Then they would have ten minutes to grab him and run before the alarms went off. They would never make it.
“What went wrong?”
“The program or his heart. Does it matter?”
She scowled at his bleak look, and his eyes lowered, disappearing into shadow.
Bastien’s muscled body rippled under Raul’s onslaught. She’d read of people reviving after lengthy revival maneuvers, but not under such conditions. Laurel eyed Raul, his face grim, determined, slamming down onto Bastien’s chestlike a battering ram,
twenty-nine, and thirty
. She leaned over, fastened her lips to Bastien’s cold mouth, and blew. Pause. Another breath and Raul resumed his pounding. She ran a hand over Bastien’s shaved head, following the ridges of his left temporal bone, cold and slimy.
Throughout her life, Laurel had attached herself only to cherished scenes, hoarding them like amulets against disaster. An image flashed through her mind now: Trees burned in the autumn sunlight, ablaze in a riot of red leaves, and the three of them—Bastien, Raul, and her—lounged on the grass, drinking Sonoma Riesling straight from the bottle. Bastien had a serious expression. “At a monastery, the prior asks a novice to replace an almost exhausted candle in the chapel. The young man forgets. After prayers, the prior sends for the novice and confronts him with a spluttering wick in a pool of molten wax. ‘Where’s the candle?’ he demands, and the young monk replies, ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’” Raul had shot a confused look at Bastien. Then the penny dropped—
“Wears
the candle?”—and they all roared with laughter.
Thirty
. She leaned over one more time and blew anger into Bastien’s lungs.
Breathe, my friend, breathe
. Laurel peered into Bastien’s face. His eyes had
Even before the wires supporting Raul had snapped free, he was already releasing the neck ring and tugging at his ear and nose plugs. When the hydraulic arm removed the mouth plug, Raul rolled on the floor as he tore out of the gelatinous mess, lurching heavily from side to side, then crawled toward her.
“Move,” he croaked. “Let’s get this mess off him.”
Good old Raul; no questions. In the short flight over the tank, he’d pressed through his horror and assessed the problem.
Raul pushed both hands under Bastien’s head and jerked the unconscious man to a sitting position to free the net so Laurel could slide it down.
“Take over chest compression. I’ll do the mouth-to-mouth,” Laurel said.
“How long has he been like this?” Raul started pounding away at a good rhythm.
Laurel had lost count of the maneuvers. “Six or seven minutes.” Keeping his airway free, she breathed hard into his mouth. It tasted of hibernation fluid—metallic with a hint of sweetness.
Still no reaction. Laurel blew into his lungs again. The window for successful bridging until defibrillation was ten to eighteen minutes. They were running out of time.
Raul compressed Bastien’s chest with vigor, eyes darting around.
“Don’t bother. I checked. No defibrillator,” Laurel said.
“Bastards!”
“It would be needless overkill. The machines hoist the meat straight up to revival labs above us. Why should they have emergency equipment around the tanks? This is a clean room, sterile. To handle emergency life support outside the tank, you’d need real people with real germs.”
“What about maintenance?”
“Automatic. Only a major breakdown would bring anybody here through the personnel corridors and service galleries.”
“Which way is the entrance?”
She cocked her head. “Behind me, but you can forget it. Shepherd’s notes were clear; it opens from the other side and won’t work until Russo surfaces and our contact joins us.”
When Raul paused, Laurel lowered her head and tried to breathe life into Bastien’s inert body. Raul continued pushing and heaving. Her mind raced. The machine would pluck Eliot Russo from the tank any minute now. Then they would have ten minutes to grab him and run before the alarms went off. They would never make it.
“What went wrong?”
“The program or his heart. Does it matter?”
She scowled at his bleak look, and his eyes lowered, disappearing into shadow.
Bastien’s muscled body rippled under Raul’s onslaught. She’d read of people reviving after lengthy revival maneuvers, but not under such conditions. Laurel eyed Raul, his face grim, determined, slamming down onto Bastien’s chestlike a battering ram,
twenty-nine, and thirty
. She leaned over, fastened her lips to Bastien’s cold mouth, and blew. Pause. Another breath and Raul resumed his pounding. She ran a hand over Bastien’s shaved head, following the ridges of his left temporal bone, cold and slimy.
Throughout her life, Laurel had attached herself only to cherished scenes, hoarding them like amulets against disaster. An image flashed through her mind now: Trees burned in the autumn sunlight, ablaze in a riot of red leaves, and the three of them—Bastien, Raul, and her—lounged on the grass, drinking Sonoma Riesling straight from the bottle. Bastien had a serious expression. “At a monastery, the prior asks a novice to replace an almost exhausted candle in the chapel. The young man forgets. After prayers, the prior sends for the novice and confronts him with a spluttering wick in a pool of molten wax. ‘Where’s the candle?’ he demands, and the young monk replies, ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’” Raul had shot a confused look at Bastien. Then the penny dropped—
“Wears
the candle?”—and they all roared with laughter.
Thirty
. She leaned over one more time and blew anger into Bastien’s lungs.
Breathe, my friend, breathe
. Laurel peered into Bastien’s face. His eyes had