Road workers stumbled upon the scene of a recent truck crash while clearing a remote highway. Curious about the truck’s cargo, they investigated, only to find themselves running for their lives when they saw what had been scattered across the road. His colleagues groaned and cried out in pain. As Brady’s vision turned back to normal, he saw blood, smoke, and fire around him…Click Here To Continue Reading>> …Click Here To Continue Reading>>
“What the heck happened here?”
But before we start, smash the like button, make sure to subscribe if you haven’t, and hit that notification bell so that you won’t miss any new stories.
He slowly got to his feet but felt his knees shaking. Adrenaline raced through his body as he attended to one of his colleague’s wounds. Even though he hadn’t even looked at his own wounds yet, they weren’t as bad as some of his colleagues, so he decided to ignore his own pain. He turned around to look at the truck and saw that it was almost entirely engulfed in flames.
“We have to move! It will explode again!” he yelled desperately, but they weren’t fast enough. The truck exploded a second time, now because the engine and the truck’s gas tank had caught on fire. As the men lay on the ground, disoriented and in pain, the faint sound of sirens grew louder. Brady tried to open his eyes with all the strength he had and saw police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances overflowing the road. Then everything went black.
“That was quite a blow, huh?” the doctor said with a smile on his face, but Brady didn’t see how his situation could be funny.
“Where am I, and where are my colleagues?” Brady asked.
The doctor chuckled. “You’ve hit your head on the ground and have a concussion. We’ll keep you here for a day or two,” he finally said. “In the hospital,” he added with a wink.
Brady was stunned. Was this doctor actually joking? He wanted to say something, but the doctor added something to his IV, after which everything turned black again, and Brady passed out—morphine, and a lot of it. He lay in bed, unable to move for what felt like hours when finally, he heard something moving around behind the door. A little bit later, a nurse wheeled a cart into his room.
“Dinner time.”
He was served food that looked like typical hospital fare, just as gross and tasteless, and he had to try his best to keep it in. When the nurse returned soon after to pick up his plates, he tried to get some information out of her, but she seemed to be hiding something. Her eyes darkened away every time Brady mentioned the accident.
“Can you at least tell me how my crew is?” he asked, hoping for a sliver of empathy.
The nurse left in a hurry, repeating that only the doctors were allowed to give him information, but Brady had been in hospitals before and knew that wasn’t totally true.
“Wait, please!” he called after her as she briskly walked away. He began to grow suspicious and asked the nurse one final favor. He wanted to know if his colleagues were doing okay.
She paused at the door, her hand on the handle, the tension visible in her posture.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” she said, her voice low and cautious.
Brady was left with even more questions than answers, but the morphine was wearing off, so he regained the ability to move around. He slowly sat up straight and lowered his feet onto the ground. His knees were hurting badly and bandaged tightly, so moving wasn’t easy for him. He shuffled towards the small bathroom, leaning heavily on anything within reach to keep from falling. He had to know why he was alienated from the rest of his colleagues, what they had seen that he hadn’t, and what the truck had been transporting.
Brady made his way back to his bed, picking up his phone to try and piece together the events that led to the hospital. Suddenly, his eyes fell on a little black dot just above the doorframe. It looked like a camera, a very tiny one no one was supposed to see. Brady squinted, trying to make sense of it.
“Why would there be a camera here?” he muttered under his breath, his mind racing with the implications of being monitored in his hospital room.
There were no chairs in the room, so he couldn’t get higher up to look at the camera better, but he was convinced he was being watched. Paranoia set in. Brady paced back and forth, eyeing the camera warily, feeling a chill run down his spine. Each passing moment made him more certain and more uneasy about the eyes he felt on him. Suddenly, Brady began to feel very panicky and began to bang his fists against the door while yelling for someone to let him out or tell him what was going on.
“Brady, Brady!”
He woke up in a different room this time, and he wasn’t alone anymore. He looked to his left and saw one of his colleagues lying next to him, unconscious but breathing. Brady couldn’t get up fast enough and stumbled to his colleague’s bedside. It was Gerbon, one of his best mates, and he looked like he was badly injured. Brady’s heart sank as he took in the sight of bandages and the cast enveloping Geron’s leg, leg hoisted in a sling.
“Hang in there, buddy,” he murmured, grasping Geron’s hands gently.
The door swung open again, and two doctors walked into the room.
“Please lie down, Brady,” one of them assuredly said before helping him get into his bed again. “Today marks three days after the explosion, and there are some things you need to know.”
Brady’s brow furrowed as he settled back against the pillows, wary of what was to come. The other doctor stepped forward, holding a binder in his hands.
“You’re not in a hospital,” he began, something Brady had already suspected, “but you can’t know where you actually are,” he continued, his tone firm yet mysterious. READ FULL STORY HERE>>>CLICK HERE TO CONTINUE READING>>>
Brady’s mind raced with questions, his eyes fixed on the binder that seemed to hold all the answers. Brady frowned as he listened to the doctor telling him they could keep him here for as long as they’d like and even showed him legal documents confirming he was a guinea pig for whatever they were doing. His jaw clenched as he skimmed the pages, a cold realization settling in.
“I’m really stuck,” he muttered, the papers rustling in his trembling hands. “What was in that truck?” Brady pressed, his voice firm and demanding.
The doctors exchanged a glance, hesitating, their silence filling the room with tension.
“All you need to know is that you will be healthy, and the truck driver has been located and is in our custody as well,” the doctor said, and before Brady could ask more, they left the room.
Brady stood there, baffled and frustrated, the door clicking shut behind them. All the morphine had worn off, and Brady felt stronger than ever, so he searched around his bed to find something he could make into a weapon for the next time someone entered his room. Later, another nurse walked in with a cart full of food.
“Lunchtime,” she said, and Brady hopped into his bed again, not having found a makeshift weapon.
The nurse prepared Brady’s plate, and he spotted a pen in her pocket. While she was busy, he sneakily made it fall onto his bed and covered it with his blanket. His heart raced as he pretended to adjust his position, his eyes flickering to the nurse, watching for any sign that she had noticed. After she left, he quickly hid the pen under his pillow, forced himself to eat the disgusting food to fuel his body, and waited for her to return. His mind was already racing with plans for the pen, his only tool in this confined space. He managed to find two long and thin metal bits that he could use to pick the lock on his door, so he waited a little bit to make sure the nurse wasn’t coming back and got to work. Brady’s hands were steady as he inserted the makeshift tools into the keyhole, his ears pricked for any sound of footsteps. As he got out of bed, he looked over at Geran, who was still lying motionless in his bed. He couldn’t leave his friend behind, so he tried to wake him by shaking his shoulders and whispering his name loudly. Finally, Geran began to wake up, his eyes fluttering open, confusion etched across his face as he tried to orient himself. Shock washed over Gerbon as he looked around him. Brady saw his pupils dilate, and Gerbon shot upright, bewilderedly looking around him.
“Where are we?” he gasped, his voice hoarse.
Brady put a finger to his lips, signaling for silence, his eyes darting to the door as he listened for any sign of approaching staff.
“We have to go,” Brady said, not explaining the whole situation as it would have taken too much time. “Can you move with that leg?” he asked, pointing at Geron’s broken leg.
Geran nodded grimly, determination setting into his features as he assessed his own condition, ready to attempt the escape no matter the pain. Brady helped Geran move around, and the two of them stumbled through a long, well-lit white hallway with many doors, all looking the same and all locked.
“Wait! Stop!” someone suddenly yelled from behind.
Brady and Gerbon tried to run away, but it wasn’t easy to run with one broken leg. The men yelling at them caught up with them and grabbed them by the arms, pulling them back into their rooms.
“You can’t leave yet,” one of the men said. “You’ll endanger everyone.”
Brady’s muscles tensed as he resisted, his eyes blazing with defiance, but the grip on his arm was too strong. Brady was done with
the mysteriousness. He wanted answers, and he wasn’t going to stop escaping if he didn’t get them, something he made very clear to the men. A little later, a man wearing a black suit, which clashed against all the white he had seen in the last few days, entered.
“I’m from the government. Please sign this,” he said as he placed a document in front of Brady on his bed.
It was an NDA, which confused Brady even more, but he signed it anyway, wanting to do anything to know the truth and get the heck out of this place. His hand shook slightly as he scribbled his signature, the pen scratching loudly against the paper. The man began to explain.
“The truck that had tipped over had been transporting biohazardous material, and you were all contaminated. That’s why you and your colleagues had to be held in this facility, where everything was sterile, for your own safety.”
Brady was stunned.
“Am I sick?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The man in the suit shook his head. “You’ll be out in a day, and your colleagues will follow shortly after, but none of you can ever speak of what happened, or else you will all have to pay a hefty fine. It’s all written in the NDA you just signed.”
When he came home, his wife flung her arms around him. The police had contacted her to inform her that her husband was kept in a health facility that was closed off to outsiders. She had been worried sick. Brady felt horrible that he couldn’t tell his wife the truth and had been given a story to tell her and anyone else who ever asked about what happened. As he rehearsed the fabricated tale in his mind, his stomach churned.
“I was just sick, nothing more,” he practiced, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
Luckily, his wife believed his story, and they let it go and never spoke of it again. As life returned to normal, the shadows of those lost days lingered in the corners of their home, unspoken but ever-present. Brady would sometimes pause, a distant look in his eyes, before shaking off the memories and smiling at his wife.
SPORTS6 months ago
IN-THE-NEWS6 months ago
IN-THE-NEWS6 months ago
IN-THE-NEWS6 months ago
SPORTS4 months ago
SPORTS5 months ago
IN-THE-NEWS6 months ago