Zahra took one last inhalation before spitting out her mouthpiece. Vincenzo handed one of the amphorae to her while he hefted the remaining pair. They then made the arduous journey back to the shore, buddy breathing the entire time. Zahra was saddled with the responsibility of passing Vincenzo’s mouthpiece back and forth. She’d read about divers in their same circumstances killing one another over the prospect of drowning. Not everyone possessed the ability to stay calm and focused during deadly situations like this. In retrospect, perhaps they should have surfaced.
Unfortunately, they couldn’t. They still needed to keep their theft a secret.
Zahra’s head broke the surface first, and she took in half a dozen greedy lungfuls of the fresh sea air. Vincenzo spat out his mouthpiece and joined in. They sat in the shallows of Cala Minnola, safely keeping their treasured wears concealed beneath the ever-rolling surf.
Vincenzo lifted his dive mask away from his face. “You…” he said between breaths, “owe me… one million euros.”
Zahra removed her own mask and patted her body as if searching for a wallet. “Apologies, but I’m a bit short.” She looked back toward the location of the wreck. “Sorry about that, Vincenzo. And thank you.”
He shrugged. “No life is less valuable.” He stood in the waist-high water and helped Zahra to her feet. “You have delivered your half of our deal. Now, it is time for me to do my part. Let us get you and your friends on your way.”
Somewhere deep beneath
It was then that Grant noticed that he had been relieved of all his clothes except of his boxers.
Through waves of nausea, he took in the space. If he didn’t know any better, he figured it was some kind of observation room. The only thing in the empty square space beside him was a single, wall-mounted TV, and the table he was attached to.
No, that wasn’t the only thing. He could hear the low hum of machinery somewhere out of sight and over his head.
In his hallucinogenic state, Grant spotted all manner of cables and hoses protruding from his body, arms, and legs. Even his scalp felt cold. Scalp? Grant panicked and noticed that the ceiling was mirrored. In it was his reflection. As he had suspected, his head had been shaved, and he was wearing some kind of monitoring device. The observation room was, in reality, a surgical suite.
And he was the patient.
The cables and tubes ran from his body to the machine responsible for the insistent humming. He attempted to crane his head in that direction but became too exhausted to execute the maneuver. He flopped his head back down to the hard metal table just as a door squeaked open somewhere over by the machinery. At this point, Grant didn’t care who had just entered the room. He was so sick that he was forced to keep his eyes shut and concentrate on his breathing. The only thing he could take solace in was that his stomach was empty. There would be no more vomiting from him.
“What…what are you doing to me?” he asked the unknown person. “Why…do I feel…so awful?”
Soft footfalls answered him, as did the squeak of wheels. Soon, A blur stepped into view off to his right. It took everything in him to focus on the person’s face.
“You?”
It was Ifza Ayad, and she was holding a rolling IV pole in her left hand. Grant turned his head and followed a pair of IV tubes, starting from the bags down to his arms. One of each had been attached to each of his hands.
“What is in those?” he asked, slurring his speech.
Ifza gently caressed the first IV bag. “This one contains a standard saline-based IV fluid.”
“And the other one?”
Ifza smiled. “Something special we created just for you.”
Grant was too exhausted to ask for a deeper explanation. Ifza sensed as much and offered up the information willingly.
“This one,” she stroked the second bag as if it were her lover’s cheek, “is much of the same thing, but we’ve mixed in a heavy concentration of gluten.”
To the average person, the news of gluten being blended into IV fluid would be nothing more than an oddity. But to someone with Celiac — like Grant — it was a potential death sentence.
“Gluten?” he asked, terrified. “You’re poisoning me with gluten?”
Ifza nodded and stepped away from the rolling IV pole. “Yes, you have something special in common with our other test subjects.”
“Others?”
“Yes, others. You all have illnesses caused by an autoimmune disorder.” Grant couldn’t fathom why. “And as a result,” she continued, “it makes it very easy for you to contract nasty little viruses, yes?”
Grant’s feverish skin went cold.
