"That'll be the Stress Squad. I hope they gas the bastards. I fucking hate structural."
Vickers looked at Bruce with a raised eyebrow. "How can you hate them? It isn't their fault they got the bad breaks."
"I hate them because I got out and I don't like to be reminded how it was. They had camps for structural outside Melbourne. I spent five years being shuffled around those fucking hellholes until I volunteered for New Guinea. Even that was a lottery. Can you imagine that? Hoping that you can win a chance to get your head blown off in some stinking jungle?"
Vickers said nothing. Bruce abruptly turned up the sound of the TV. The subject had clearly been dropped. They drove in silence for another twenty minutes. By that time they were in open country. A bright moon made the scrub desert landscape look like the surface of Mars. On TV, the episode of Rogan's Vengeance had reached its bloody finale. The nurse seemed to treat this as a signal. She took out a small zippered wallet and opened it. Inside was a loaded syringe. She smiled.
"I think it's time for your shot, Mort."
The room contained exactly three pieces of furniture, an iron hospital-style bed, a metal locker and a chair. His luggage had been dumped in a corner. Another cool, leggy nurse was sitting on the chair watching him.
"How long have I been out?"
"Twenty-seven hours."
"Unh?"
"They kept you under while they ran some tests and stuff."
"Oh shit."
"Worried that you might have missed something?"
"Worried what I might have missed."
Vickers had woken on his back. He turned over on his side, wrapping the blankets protectively around him. He stared at the wall. It was painted a drab, duck's egg green. The paint was brand new with a fresh turpentine smell. The effect was someplace between a hospital and a prison. He realized that someone had removed his clothes. He glanced around. They were folded on top of his bags.
"Where am I?"
"Do you know that's the very first time I've ever heard someone use that line in real life?"
Vickers slowly sat up. Whatever drugs they'd used on him had left him dizzy and his stomach kept threatening to heave. He was also profoundly depressed by a rapidly fading dream. It was like the drugs had taken him to some wondrous place where all the secrets of the universe had been revealed to him. As consciousness came back it had melted away like the morning mist, leaving him with a gaping, empty sadness.
"I guess it's just the drugs."
"I'll try and get you something."
"Am I allowed to get up?"
"You can do pretty much whatever you like except leave, of course."
He wrapped the blanket around himself and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
"What do I call you?"
"You could try 'hey nurse.'"
"You don't give much away."
"I'm not paid to."
"What are you paid for?"
"To sit here and make sure you don't vomit or choke or anything."
"It sounds boring."
"It was." She held up a book, The New Celibacy by Wilma Deering.
He wasn't sure that he could stand but he tried anyway. He swayed dangerously. Hey Nurse was quickly beside him.
"Jesus Christ!"
"I think you'd better sit down.'
He sat. Sweat was running down his face. "I feel like I've been poisoned."
"They really did keep you under for a very long time."
"What were they looking for?"
"Ah, come on, you know I can't tell you that."
He waited a few minutes and then tried to stand again. This time he was more successful and Hey Nurse didn't have to help him.
"Can I take a shower?"
There were two doors in the room. Hey Nurse opened one of them; a small hotel-style bathroom was behind it.
"I'll fix the water for you."
"Do I have to leave the door open?"
"Don't do me any favors."
He closed the door behind him, dropped his blanket and stepped into the warm spray. Gradually the water worked on his locked muscles until he no longer felt like he was mummified. His brain also started working again. If he'd been out for twenty-seven hours, he could be just about anywhere in the world. He could assume nothing and he'd
be well advised to get past Hey Nurse and on to someone who was a little more informative. So far, it had been a bit too close to brainwashing. Part of his wish had already come true when he came out of the shower. A tall, broad-shouldered man in military fatigues was flirting with Hey Nurse. He turned and extended a hand.
"Mort Vickers, my name's Streicher. I'll be in charge of you while you're here."
Vickers felt a little awkward accepting introductions wrapped in only a towel.
"I'm glad to meet you. Do you mind if I get dressed?"
Hey Nurse made her excuses. "I'll leave you two alone."
After she'd gone, Streicher grinned at Vickers.
"Isn't she a peach? Don't you just love nurses? It's all that starched cotton and those white stockings"
Vickers was pulling on his pants.
"Where, exactly, is here?"
Streicher looked a little disappointed that Vickers didn't want to share his appreciation of nurses.
"Just like you were told, a desert location about sixty clicks outside Vegas."
"I've been out so long I could be anywhere."