+18 - eps 22-27 - A case takes Russell and Brock to the brink of death. It'll be up to Gillian and the team to rescue them before they're killed by a white supremacist militia. And in the aftermath of the Paris attacks, the threat of a bio attack fo...
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After breakfast, Allen and the remaining agents from Portland went to their cabin, and the owner showed Fred, Ron, Hank and Kurt to the vacant cabin left.
Gillian and Tanya took the small one Brock and Russell had shared for the last week. The girl didn't even ask. She muttered, "Night..." and headed straight to Russell's room.
Gillian stood in the middle of the living area. Her eyes moved over the map and the pictures pinned to a corkboard on the wall, Brock's readers by his computer on the table, Russell's jacket on a rack, a phone charger on the corner shelf... All those little things showing there'd been people living there. And not just any people. These two men were among the most important persons in her life.
And now they were both at some hideous hospital, their lives depending on a bunch of strangers who would do all they could to save them. All they could. But not whatever it took.
She glanced at the door to Brock's room. She didn't want to go there. She didn't want to find his bag, his clothes. She didn't want to lie down on the bed where he'd slept just the night before. Not when her arms still felt like holding him, his aching but quiet weight against her chest, his troubled breath on her neck.
She didn't want to sleep in his bed while the jerks in white cut him open miles away from her. Not when maybe she'd already seen the last of him when they loaded him to the helicopter.
Because it didn't matter if he didn't like her, nor want her around. At least that meant he was there. His rejection meant he existed. It meant he was alive.
And on that frozen dawn in the Northern Woods, she really needed him alive.
She drew a very deep breath and walked into the empty bedroom. She forbade herself to look around. Her eyes fixed on the bed neatly made, she got rid of her muddy clothes and slid between the sheets.
Brock's cologne seemed to wrap around her when she rested her head on the pillow. And that was the last straw to throw down whatever was left of her defenses. She curled up and could but clench her teeth when tears overflowed her eyes. She cried herself to sleep, and fell in a cold, gray dream which mixed her worst memories and fears.
So she found herself lost in a maze of endless hospital corridors, trying in vain to find Russell's room. Or maybe it was Brock's room she was looking for? Or was it her mother's? Many doors opened to those corridors. Every time she looked into a room, she found a dead body on the bed, a white sheet pulled over the head. There were people crying quietly by those beds. Her father, Bank's wife, Russell's mom, Aldana, Andrea. And she hurried away every time, looking for the rooms where the ones she loved were still alive.
Finally she reached a waiting room. One of those with nice couches, comfy armchairs, coffee tables, bending machines, magazines. Like a hotel lobby, so people could pretend to forget why they were here, and what they were waiting for. Her father was there, and she was surprised at how young he was. He looked even younger than her. She paused at the door, hesitating.
"Dad...?" she tried, and her voice was that of a twelve-year-old girl.
He looked up and forced a smile, waving at her to join him on the couch.
"Reg! You made it! Come, wait with me. Mom's still in surgery."
She sat down with him as he asked. She always did whatever he asked. "Still? They're taking too long!"
Her father patted her leg. He'd never been the champion of fatherly affection, but at least he'd tried. "The longer, the better, Reg. It means it's worth working on her. If they open you on the slab and see there's nothing they can do to fix you, they just stitch you up again and call it a day."
"So Mom's gonna get better?"
The hope in her voice made his confident smile falter. But he nodded anyway.
Even in dreams, Gillian could tell that distant memory. And remember how a doctor had showed up to kill any hope they might still harbor.
Only now, when the doctor walked in, she was no longer a child but a grown-up. And it was Aldana by her side instead of her father. They jumped to their feet and approached the man.
And the doctor started talking as if he tried to sell them a broken car as new. He was fine, the man said, never clarifying who he was talking about. He was fine but still in surgery, because it was worth patching him up. He was so going to make it and everything would be just so fine.
The man's voice, his smile, his words. Everything was so forced and fake, Gillian wanted to punch his lights out.
To her surprise, Aldana seemed to believe it. So they talked about how well he was. While behind the doctor, all the elevators opened at the same time. And Gillian saw in growing horror how a host of orderlies wheeled out of the booths an impossible number of stretchers. She tugged at Aldana's sleeve, trying to get her attention as the horrible parade of stretchers rolled behind the man in white, every stretcher carrying a still, cold body covered with a white sheet.
She didn't wake up with a jolt, like out of one of her cop dreams. She just opened her eyes. Out the window, the sun touched the trees in a golden light that made the greens brighter.
Of course Brock had tissues on his nightstand, right by a thick book and the empty case of his readers. So Gillian wiped her tears and blew her nose until she was able to draw in some air. Then she threw an arm over the pillow and closed her eyes again, her face on that soft fabric smelling of Brock.
.
.
Keep reading on the next episode: BLACKBIRD 24 - the threat
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