The Hollow City by Dan Wells

wildly on the tape. I apologize for not explaining the possible side effects earlier, but we didn’t want to frighten you unnecessarily and we really had no idea that anything would develop this quickly. Your body may have a certain susceptibility to drugs. Anyway, dyskinesia is not debilitating, but it is bad, and I’m afraid we’ll have to discontinue the Loxitane altogether.”
    “Well thank goodness for that.”
    “It’s our only choice, really—your delusions and hallucinations are still fully present, so the Loxitane is clearly not working, and we obviously can’t raise the dose.”
    “Wait!” I jerk forward as far as the restraints will let me. “I’m not hallucinating, Doctor; you have to believe me. If I was that messed up in the head, how could I have gotten out of here?”
    “You’re delusional, Michael, but you’re not stupid. You’re actually very intelligent—most schizophrenics are. But you are sick, and we are trying to cure you, and medication is the only way—”
    “You’re giving me more drugs?”
    “We’ll be starting you on Seroquel, which in some ways is—”
    “Your drugs are making me lose control of my own body, so you’re giving me more? What are you trying to do to me?”
    “Loxitane worked on your brain’s dopamine receptors,” he says calmly. “The Seroquel will affect both dopamine and serotonin, so it should be more effective.”
    “Why didn’t you just start with that one, then?”
    “Because the side effects are potentially worse, so we don’t like to use it if we don’t have to. We tried Loxitane first to—”
    “No,” I say, shaking my head, “absolutely not. Do you have any idea what this is doing to my brain?”
    “It’s fixing it.”
    “It’s frying it right in my skull! I won’t even have a brain left by the time you’re done. I’ll be a vegetable.”
    “The mechanism of this drug is completely different from the last one, so there will be no overlap in effect or risk; we’ll start at the minimum dose and work up until we see a positive result.”
    “Or until it kills me.”
    “The potential side effects of Seroquel are annoying but completely nonlethal,” he says, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand. “There is some small risk of tardive dyskinesia again, but, as I said, the mechanism is different and they shouldn’t overlap—plus, we’ll be watching you much more closely now that we’ve seen how sensitive you can be. If there’s the slightest hint of it, we’ll discontinue treatment.”
    “And what else? You said it was worse than the first drug.”
    “Seroquel doubles as a powerful sedative,” he says. “Some people even use it recreationally.”
    “And that’s bad?”
    “A very powerful sedative,” he says. “You’ll sleep like a rock, but you’ll wake up with the worst hangover you’ve ever had. We can alleviate that somewhat with other drugs, but I want to observe you first to see precisely how it affects you.”
    “No,” I say again, shaking my head. “I won’t let you do it.”
    “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, Michael.” He waves to the door, and three large male nurses come in. One of them hands Dr. Little a small plastic cup. “We’re doing this for your own good, Michael.” They grab me, and I try to wriggle free, but the bed restraints hold me tightly in place. “We’re only trying to help you.” The nurses hold me down, forcing my head back until my face points up at the ceiling. Dr. Little sighs. “If you insist, we’re perfectly prepared to do this the hard way.”
    I clamp my mouth shut, but he sets down the pill and picks up a syringe. The nurses hold me in place, my muscles rigid with the effort to break free. I feel a prick in my shoulder, a lance of solid pain that holds for five, six, seven seconds, and then fades to a dull ache. The nurses let go and I jerk forward, thrashing and coughing.
    “No!”
    Dr. Little smiles.
    “Very good,” he says. “I trust that in