Quarantine by Lisabet Sarai

Author:Lisabet Sarai [Sarai, Lisabet]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Total-E-Bound Publishing
Published: 2012-06-25T04:00:00+00:00

* * * *

A light floral scent teased Dylan awake. It reminded him of his mother, dead so many years ago. Her perfume had smelled like this, complex, sweet without being cloying. The sensation and the recollection filled him with a surprising sense of well-being.

Where was he? He remembered the android trooper. He had expected to wake up in some chill, dank cell that smelt of mould and urine, if not worse. Instead, a pleasant warmth played over his bare skin and this heavenly fragrance lifted his spirits. Smooth, cushioned fabric caressed his back and buttocks. Soft music played in the background, a solo flute winding up and down a minor scale. Clearly he was not in prison. When he tried to move, however, he discovered that his arms were stretched over his head and his wrists were shackled.

Sleep still clung to him. He forced his heavy eyelids open.

He lay on an enormous bed, on top of a coverlet of quilted silk. The ceiling above him was made of some light-coloured wood that looked genuine. He craned his neck, looking around—the walls of the vast room were panelled, too, though the whole right side was a riot of vegetation, punctuated by bright blooms. The lovely scent must issue from there. Set into the opposite wall was a floor-to-ceiling window. Points of light burned in the blackness beyond the glass.

As far as he could tell with his limited range of vision, he was the only person in the room.

He tugged at his bonds, which showed no tendency to loosen or break, then twisted to examine them. Padded leather cuffs circled each wrist, then clipped together. A length of chain ran from a ring on the cuffs to a steel eye bolt screwed into the base of the carved wood headboard, obviously intended for this purpose. Using his heels, he tried to hike himself into a sitting position, but the best he could do was bend his elbows and rest the back of his head on his clasped hands. He tried a different tack, rolling onto his side and drawing his knees up, his arms still extended above his head. This gave him a better view out of the window. He recognised the distinctive pyramid of the New Transamerica building, twinkling in the distance. He must be at a significant elevation—maybe on Mount Sutro.

He flipped over to examine the other side of the room. Fixtures recessed into the ceiling lit the scene with an indirect glow. Now he could see the panes of a greenhouse embedded in the wall. Potted palms, dwarf lemon trees, shiny-leafed tendrils of philodendron, tumbled cascades of bougainvillea, a gardenia bush starred with snowy blossoms. The centre pane was open, and the rampant greenery threatened to spill into the room itself.

The music ceased, leaving a pregnant silence. Dylan’s speeding pulse was loud in his ears. Then another sound drew his attention—a faint murmur that definitely came from a human throat.

Dylan rolled to his left, following the noise. In a far corner of the room, wreathed in shadow, was an upholstered reclining chair.

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