Then came execution day. One of Adam's former pack members made them a very lightweight wheeled sled made of aluminum tubes and canvas, in which Mimi could be safely tied up and carried by the wolves. The plan was simple. The men would turn into wolves and pull the sled on the outward journey.
Charles would harness the sled to the backs of Adam and Samuel because Adam was a big blue and black wolf, and the sled would not slow him down at all. Samuel was a white wolf, but big and strong. The sled would be silent, it would go quickly, and Mimi would be safe in it.
Then, when they got out of the cave, Charles and the vampires would quickly pack Mimi in the car and help the men aboard as well. On the way, the men would change back. They would meet at Bran's house and then look closer at Mimi. Bran would go through the cave ahead. He was the smallest wolf, and he would watch for any danger. Bran's wolves would also watch outside the factory in the woods.
Charles and Bran had taken a preliminary look at the route, and they knew what to expect. Charles had found the guards' shifts and break times, so they knew when there would be no one on the Mimi floor, no guards. They had even gone to oil the hinges of the service hatch so that no sound would be heard when they went through it.
No one noticed as they walked through the corridors preparing for the rescue that there were miniature motion detectors in the cave ceiling at set intervals, and on one side of the cave, the wall was actually a false wall, and there was a room behind it. Still, the latest technology protected the wall, so neither Bran nor Charles knew anything about it.
Dr Morrisey and Kendrick were very excited. They would soon have what they needed for their project: werewolf DNA and werewolves to study and the project would be completed, and then a new era would begin. Dr Kendrick was very excited, too. Once Dr Morrisey's project was in the right stage, he could study the rage of the male werewolves and, best of all, the rage of Marrok. He'd heard legends of the Marrok killing villages in his madness, tearing people apart with his bare hands, and that was a trait he wanted in their project. Indeed, the world would soon see the reality of what monsters werewolves really were.
A little less than halfway, there would be a bigger cavern where they could take a breather on the way and ensure Mimi was asleep. Bran and Charles had made sure of this beforehand. It was important that Mimi stayed calm because, from what the guard had told them, there was no telling how sane Mimi would actually be. How medicated and how dangerous or unpredictable.
So, controlling Mimi was another thing to consider. Mimi might react very violently to being pulled by strange men in a wolf-drawn sled in a cave somewhere when Mimi didn't know them at all. Samuel also reserved a small bag, which Charles took with him. The bag contained some powerful anesthetic drugs, needles, and syringes in case Mimi was awake or tried to fight.
Once they had got Mimi safely into Bran's house and Mimi saw the vampires, they might start to unload the medication and see what had been done to Mimi.
Preliminary analysis showed that the drugs that had been used on Mimi in the past were very experimental and a combination of almost potent psychotropic drugs and animal tranquilizers. This was a brand new drug and really affected the human psyche, making it susceptible to brainwashing. Samuel had also sent samples of the drugs to other colleagues just to warn them of what the bad people were up to.
Once there, Charles would turn human, and he and Mercy would go and get Mimi. Before entering, he and Mercy would put Adam and Samuel in harnesses. They would unload the sled and get it ready to go as soon as they brought Mimi back. The sled would run on Adam's back before they could get to Mimi. Adam was the most muscular wolf, and even though the sled was made as light as possible, it brought its own setbacks. For example, Bran would be in trouble or slower if he had to run with the sled on his back, but Adam was so much bigger and stronger, so it would be easy for him.
From the time I was kidnapped and brought here to the facility, I tried to escape. I fought back and attacked whoever I could. For some reason, I felt this rage boiling up every time I tried to act, but I learned to use it as an asset, not a hindrance. Instead of just blindly attacking something, I planned, try to be unpredictable, and always be on my guard.
Whenever I heard footsteps approaching, I felt my white-hot rage rise to the surface and my fists clenched. I let it feel all over my body, in my mind, imagining burning away the drugs, the pain from these examinations, the wounds, the stitches that were in my body.
I was always looking for a weapon, a fork, a drip rack, or anything I could use to swing, hit, or escape. The drip hose was a suitable instrument for strangling, but because I was so short, I could barely get it around anyone's neck. It would get the nurse or the guard in agony if I even wrapped it around their arm and tightened it. I was in survival mode, and I had a self-preservation instinct. I was trying to escape, to survive, to run away. I wasn't attacking for violence. I was trying to get away, to protect myself.
Sometimes, I even got out of the room, even to the supposed front door. The guards had tranquilizer guns loaded, and the stuff was strong. But it always took a while for the stuff to take effect, and if I was in a rage, it always gave me a few more moments. The other guards had tasers but didn't always keep me in check if I got my rage out.
Usually, when they got two or three darts in me, they'd close the doors tight and wait for the stuff to do its job, and I was harmless when it always did. Then I'd wake up in bed tied up. Maybe something had been done to me again. Somewhere there was a new row of stitches, a new bruise, a wound, whatever.
I couldn't bear to be tied to the bed, and as soon as I woke up, I got myself going a little, got my wits about me, and tore or rather shredded the cannula off myself; I didn't care where it was embedded; it was gone. I pulled it out with my teeth before I even got myself out of any shackles or restraints. Then, once I got loose, I destroyed the drip bags.
I tore them apart. I shredded and knotted all the tubing and tried to break windows but was soon moved to a room with no windows. The doors were strong, but I learned to listen for when someone came into the room and was ready to jump into action. I even tried to see if there was an air duct access. The meds kept me in a pretty fierce mood, and I wasn't careful, so some of the bruises and injuries were self-inflicted as I almost climbed the walls and fell when I got dizzy. I had also lost quite a lot of weight again. Somewhere in between, just the thought came into my head.
I was always cold and hungry and couldn't always stay conscious; I might pass out on the floor. I never got any food. They must have dropped something into my veins, but when I tore it all out at once and destroyed it, trampled the bags to pieces, I probably didn't get everything they were going to pour into me. And then I woke up tied to the bed again. And in a new way.
I became an absolute beast at escaping, and I could pretty quickly turn and twist my arms and wrists the right way to get them off. And when I lost weight, my wrists and arms were really narrow, not so small chains that weren't always a little loose somewhere. They took tissue samples from me, opened me up several times, and examined my internal organs.
I was waiting for something to really rupture inside me and for me to die. I was almost certain that the rampage would snap something inside me, and I'd die from internal bleeding. I was pretty sure I had stitches in my internal organs, too. A familiar-looking doctor came by once or twice to admire me and demanded various scans and samples. And then this bloody nasal-voiced psychiatrist seemed so damn familiar.
This other one, the chubby one, he called me Omega. Well, I guess they have code names, but I would not introduce myself when I tried to escape. I don't know how long I'd been in the institution, but luckily, my fighting spirit didn't waver. I didn't remember the vampires. I didn't miss them.
I was just in my little bubble, ready to run, attack, and kill. I don't know how many people I killed or maimed, and frankly, I didn't care. I didn't even think about when I whacked a female nurse in the neck with a drip stand, so the blood spurted in an arc, and she fell. I didn't care if she died or not. It just mattered that she wasn't in my way. Even if she hadn't come to do anything to me, she was still an enemy, a target to be taken down. And the fucking psychiatrist seemed to be satisfied. Oh, I tried quite a few times to break out at him, and he wasn't impressed.
I only heard occasionally when nurses or examiners talked about subjects that didn't make it out alive and even saw a couple of times when stretchers were carried down the hall with a bloody sheet on them. On some stretches, you could see a pale hand had dripped out, but not all were bloody.
I just heard this fat man say he had six subjects with six out of the eight, and he was going to try the serum on them, too. These carcasses were carried or pushed almost every time I tried to escape. I refused to accept that it would be my fate. Even though I knew it might be, I would not lie down and let them kill me, maim me alive. If I didn't survive, I wouldn't leave without a fight.
Then one day, I overheard two researchers saying they had a clear sighting of some targets; I don't know what targets they were talking about, but this chubby one told the other one, this psychiatrist, that the target project would go ahead as long as the targets were caught, they had a research chamber set aside to control the targets, and the project would be mobile, I didn't know what the fuck that meant but I didn't even care.
"I can't wait to get our hands on them. I'm finally getting donors, and it takes time to make the serum, so we have time to raise capital for implementation and completion of the project." The fat man chuckled to the psychiatrist.
The psychiatrist said, "Oh, when I get to test those items, then. I have a couple of new products ready for testing, and as you can see, I have got the omegas rage out and growing. It is then up to your serum to make it permanent."
Chubby said, "My serum is working, at least the omega, and then I'll look at those other six targets to see if it's possible to get the serum to work on just six instead of eight."
There were footsteps. This was the guard approaching the doctors and saying.
" I heard there's been movement in the sub tunnels, and those hidden motion sensors went off the other day, so the bosses want more surveillance there."
The doctors seemed to grumble something. I was strapped down on the operating table, barely conscious, so I didn't have to listen any further, as this doctor wanted to take another biopsy of my liver or, actually, another lobe. My liver, he said, always grew back, which was a great miracle to them.
The chubby one said, "Oh, this serum of mine is already working well on the Omega. I have now rejuvenated her body, got her to heal pretty damn fast, and she is already something other than human, but once the project is finished, then the full potential of the Omega will be revealed."
I wonder what his fucking potential is. Well, that was pretty much the last thought I had when the fat guy stuck some syringe into my cannula and shoved the drug into my veins so that the darkness swallowed me whole.
It was one evening or night when all the lights in my room had been turned off, and I had been given another muscle relaxant, and anesthetic was dripping mercilessly into my veins; if I could get my arms out a little, get them to move a little, then maybe I could reach into that IV and get it plugged up so the drug wouldn't work.
These had now come up with a muscle relaxant to put in addition to the drip, making for a more effective management cocktail. For some reason, the drugs didn't affect me that terribly long. I developed a tolerance for them incredibly quickly, but I didn't know that myself. The researchers just had to keep using new and new drugs to get me to sleep, or at least properly sedated. The muscle relaxants were the ones I didn't develop such a good tolerance to or the anesthetics. They had put me a couple of times a spinal anesthetic in, but when it didn't work in the tests and trials, something about it interfered with their work. They couldn't do it.
I lay in bed and tried to work, trying to get something of myself to move. But it was slow, and the medicine was dripping mercilessly into my veins. My eyes were almost closed, and my arms couldn't move anymore. My consciousness started to shut down, no matter how much I fought. I could only hear the footsteps approaching, and I didn't recognize them. Usually, I knew who was coming just by the footsteps, but now I did not know who these two were.