Deanna was woken by the orderly with that same characteristic disregard for what remained of her dignity. He stood over her, staring at her intensely. This time, however, he didn't seem to have that same leering expression. Perhaps he had got used to the idea that she would always keep on a nightgown regardless of how warm it was in this cell of a room, and given up on the hope that she'd be so drugged out of her mind she wouldn't care about covering up.
‘It is time for you leave.’
‘What?’ she questioned, still not fully awake, still under the influence of whatever drug they’d forced her to take.
‘You heard me.’
‘What about Dr---’
‘Yes, they're his instructions. Do I need to get them in writing?’
‘No of course not.’ It wasn't as if she wanted to stay a minute longer, there was just a suddenness about it that was disconcerting. Where was the final counselling session to assess that she really was ready to leave? Not that she was ever not ready.
Wasn't I?
‘You have five minutes to get your things together,’ he said, before leaving.
Deanna left her room, for the first time, with no assistance. She felt a fuzzy nervousness, along the corridor; neither encountering nor hearing any other patient or doctor. Only in the main lobby (a place she’d only been through upon her arrival) were there the few security staff, who stared at her impassively. But when she met one guard's gaze he looked away, perhaps indifferent or embarrassed – she couldn’t be sure. Clearly they just wanted her out without fuss, without any complications.
She'd been so cut off from the outside world she didn't even know what day and what month it was. Bright sunlight and fresh air felt overwhelming. Atrophied muscles and drug-induced torpor made walking a struggle.
The grounds of the institute were not exactly prepossessing: unkempt grass on either side of a path leading to a car park, no flowers. The gentle warmth of the sun gave her the impression this must be April.
What surprised Deanna was how they could let her go with no assistance, not even a lift back to her cabin. It was only now, as the drugs were finally losing their grip, that the realisation struck her. They: Dr Strendford and his cohorts cared nothing for her – whether she lived or died. It was not that she had ever got the impression that Strendford was genuinely interested in her, he reminded her of a Nazi doctor from a history archive film – the one that treated his patients as experimental subjects, lab rats. How strange, how messed-up, in fact, that she had yearned to be back under the somewhat obsessive supervision of Dr Heigener.
At least they had returned to her some essential possessions, clothes, a credit tattoo-transfer and a commlink. Her first instinct was to call Scott, it was almost like a mental reflex to say his name into the device – and he would come and and greet her with a warm smile, a hug, then drive them back to the welcoming comfort of their cabin. But now she was truly alone. Her friends had moved on. At first her best friend had tried to offer words of support, such as ‘It's good to stay positive. If nothing has been confirmed then there's still hope.’ But, she remembered, every news report seemed to go one step further toward confirming that the passengers had not survived. Josh’s wife Colleena had seemed to have already gone through the grieving process, and latterly would not even speak to her. Deanna’s conviction that Scott must still be alive had become a source of anguish for Colleena and awkwardness and embarrassment for others. And now. There was no one.
A mental case is always a lonely one.
She found the nearest airbus station only a block away in this suburban area. As she waited some kids, mid teens, approached on the other side. She prepared herself for their taunts: ‘Loony ... loony!’ But they merely walked on by, seemingly disinterested. Only, I know I was never insane. Right? After all those months of being drugged, of hallucinating, and perhaps the delusional belief that she could be back with him, the notion of her sanity had become shaky.
The bus landed with a guided precision that no human could manage. She swiped the back of her hand – with the credit tattoo transferred on it – over the fare scanner. There was an unnerving delay of about ten seconds before the bar lifted for her to board the bus. These vehicles still contained an actual flesh and blood driver (really only for the peace of mind of the passengers rather than any practical reason) who stared at her somewhat suspiciously. Maybe the problem was that she hadn’t used credit-tat the for some time and this had been flagged by the system. Still, she got on without any questions. The other few passengers were glancing at her, but then quickly returned to their conversations. She overheard someone in the seat in front talking about the panic in Russia. One of the women said: ‘It’s the aliens, they’ve been preparing us, showing people their power.’
‘No,’ said the other woman, ‘they just want to experiment with us.’
‘Some of them are disguised as people.’
One of three women noticed Deanna was likely to be listening, and started speaking in a whisper. She couldn’t be sure that what she'd overheard was not just some hallucinogenic after-effect of the medication, yet what they said might explain the strange disappearance of the ship, the subsequent clampdown on space travel. Scott was alive, taken by an alien. A reason for him being alive. There was her hope.
The bus didn't stop anywhere near her home, and even the connection of two more only got her as near as two kilometres. Before her incarceration walking that distance would have been effortless, but after the months of inactivity and a lack of nutrition it felt like a challenge; the few items in her bag a burden.
With only one k to go she passed couple of men along a quiet lane, who were obviously drunk even though it was only about 3pm. She kept as far on the other side of them as possible, but one crossed over towards her. He stopped less than a metre in front of her and said, ‘Hey babe,’ uncomfortably loud for his close proximity, ‘since the world’s about to end why don’t you and I get it on, make the most of what time we got left?’
‘I’m sorry I don’t ... I can’t.’ She couldn’t get the words out.
‘Look, luv, we’re all gonna die soon anyway. So what’s wrong with a bit of last hour action?’
‘Please,’ she said, in a pleading voice. ‘Just let me pass.’
His friend, slightly less drunk, called to the other man. ‘Come on Dan, she's not up for it. There's still time for plenty of others. There’s Rocks bar ...’
His friend reluctantly retreated, muttering something about her being frigid. This wasn’t the first time she’d had to deal with leery lads, but before she would have some effective putdown. Yet her encounter had instilled fear in her, something visceral. The world seemed to be falling apart. Out of control.
The sight of the cabin offered a welcome relief. Except their car was gone. Inside, it was emptied of their personal belongings: pictures, Scott’s console, his bike, in fact anything personally relating to him. All that remained was the furniture and the entertainment system – its memory cleared. ‘Bastards!’ she shouted, on the verge of crying. It no longer felt like home.
***