Zeke froze in place, swallowing. His fear must have been written all over his face, because Noah squeezed his waist as he pushed him gently through the door, his hand rubbing the small of his back.
“Let’s get this over with,” Noah whispered. “Whatever he says, we’ll face it together.”
Zeke steadied himself and allowed himself to be dragged into the small interview room.
Someone was sitting handcuffed to a small table. At first, he almost turned to tell the guard in the corner they’d brought the wrong prisoner. The man—Doctor Harding—that was sitting at the table was skeletal. A dark jumper hung off his body, exposing pale, thin wrists under its sleeves. Gone was Harding’s usual trim beard, a straggly grey mess in its place. His gaunt face housed deep set wrinkles.
“Doctor… Harding?” Zeke’s voice was loud in the silent space. Noah hung back until Zeke grabbed his hand, dragging him forward towards his old mentor.
Doctor Harding looked up, blinking at them. His glassy eyes took a while to focus. “Zeke?” he said, at last, twisting the handcuffs around his wrist.
Even though he’d spent the last few days imagining this conversation, every word and every rehearsed speech left his brain. Noah tapped his wristband. Time was already running out. He sat down opposite Doctor Harding, and Noah followed suit in the second chair, brushing his ankle against his.
“I’m Lieutenant Forrest, Zeke’s friend. We’ve come to ask you some questions.” He nodded at Zeke to continue.
“Zeke…” said Doctor Harding, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. He cast his eyes down to his cuffs, fiddling with the chain that fixed them to the table. “Why are you here? Where’s… Where’s Oliver?”
“What? Oliver? He’s not with us. He’s at home. Sick. He’s really sick, Doctor Harding.” Zeke stared at him, his brain unable to connect the man in front of him with the man he knew.
“Sick you say? Will he be back in the lab tomorrow, do you think?”
Zeke glanced at Noah, who’d raised one sceptical eyebrow.
“No, he won’t be. He’s extremely ill. Dying, even.” Noah said. “Can you tell us what you injected him with, Doctor?”
Doctor Harding stopped playing with his handcuffs, looking up to meet Noah’s gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he said, mildly, as if they were discussing the weather. “I think I’m confused.”
“Bullshit,” snapped Noah, with some force.
Zeke blinked rapidly—Noah so rarely lost his composure. The guard took a hesitant step forward, a warning in his eye.
“Fine, let’s skip straight to Zeke. I want you to organise a detailed substance report, and a sample to be handed over, of what you injected inside of him. Today.” Noah lowered his voice to the barest of whispers as he leaned across the table. “Or else I’ll do everything in my power to make your life a living hell.”
Zeke very much doubted there was anything Noah could do to Doctor Harding, considering how difficult it’d been to organise a ten-minute meeting. “Noah,” he hissed. “Calm down.”
Doctor Harding began to rock. A rumbling cackle erupted out of him, quickly escalating into a cacophonous roar.
Zeke reached for Noah’s hand under the table. The man in front of him was not the cool, composed Doctor Harding who’d led Oakfield as efficiently as a well-oiled machine. This man was a deranged stranger.
“Please, Doctor Harding,” Zeke said. “If you won’t do anything else, just tell me why you did it. You owe me that much, at least.” Years of working under the man, and it was reduced to this?
The doctor stopped, stared, appeared to consider his request.
He lowered his voice to say, “The scientific community have long lamented the constraints suppressing advancement in comprehending the intricacies of the RONS virus. A consortium of esteemed colleagues—leading experts from around the world—started working closely together, following a lead on immunomodulators.” Doctor Harding’s eyes drifted away from him, and his voice became almost dream-like when he continued, “But here in London, The Health Research Authority and their endless regulations were always getting in our way. They were slowing us down. We didn’t have time to wait for their approval, not when lives were on the line. Hence, the imperative arose for an assertion of self-reliance.”
Self-reliance?Zeke wanted to scream at him, but Noah nodded, likely to make Harding continue rather than agreeing with Harding’s questionable moral code.
“We were testing an immunomodulator on subjects and were starting to see promising results. Our methods were controversial, of course, but we believed that the potential benefits outweighed the risks. We were so close… so, so close.”
Noah increased his grip on Zeke’s hand.
“But Zeke, my boy, you don’t need to worry.”
“I… I don’t? Did I not receive the same batch as Oliver? Is there anything we can do to help him?” The questions gushed out of Zeke like a burst dam.
Doctor Harding leaned forward, as if about to tell them a secret. “You have nothing to worry about because… I never injected any of my staff with anything,” he hissed with a sneer.
