Blood Bank

The plasma bags are what she is after. She has them. This, the plasma, maintains the building blocks of life; it's the binder that knits red and white cells and platelets together; a kind of emulsifier of the bloodstream but with a bigger engine under the hood; all those things and so much more. Without it you die; with it you may also suffer if it isn't working as it should. For Caitlin's brother Martin, it was the latter.

Caitlin had promised Martin the ride of a lifetime as soon as he was well enough to once again venture outside. They'd travel down I95 as far as Philly then hook west and head over to Illinois, to start at the end-point of the route that Evel Knievel had laid waste to back in the 70s. Martin wanted to see all the sites where Knievel had stopped and stayed, performed jumps and granted interviews to the media, before his last stunt – jumping a tank full of live sharks in Chicago - came to an abrupt and embarrassing end when he crashed in rehearsal and struck a member of his own camera crew. It all looks so amateurish when viewed in context of today's stock-standard forms of transport and gadgets; an iPhone is better built and has more smarts than anything Evel ever placed his ass in or on, difficult to understand why they couldn't perceive anything would fail given the task at hand verses the technology available. By extension, maybe in 40 years' time someone will study Martin's medical case and wonder how the doctors of their day were unable to perceive the obvious path to remedying his condition. Perhaps the meaning of hindsight was exactly as spelled: being able to look back and see your own ass.

But first, plasma. They'd need a lot of it if their meandering road trip was to faithfully follow in ol' EK's footsteps. Martin figured they'd need at least five bags, seven to keep on the safe side; Caitlin was aiming for six. Stealing from a bloodbank was no simple matter. At first she thought it would be a pushover – just find a busy center with lots of donors on daybeds squeezing balls in the palms of their hands and snake your way behind the scenes to snaffle some of the good oil. Her reconnaissance missions scared her, no lax storage or under-wage security guards goofing off at these places. No, this was serious business which to Caitlin's mind meant money – they must be making good money out of this gig otherwise they wouldn't care about or be able to afford good security. If there was no profit in it bloodbanks would be staffed by airhead volunteers and community service chumps.

Caitlin identified an 'in' while she looked for a real job for herself, – newly qualified via vocational studies as an aged-care worker – she spotted a local cleaning firm advertising for casual staff, which included 'patient donation facilities' as one of their contracts.

“Hey Marty, think I found something” she turned her smartphone towards her brother and tapped at the advertisement.

“Huh? 'Get 7% off if you use Afterpay on this product'?”

“No. No, wait” Caitlin turned the screen back and deftly reverted to the previous advertisement, then carefully turned the phone back towards her brother.

“Oh hey. You think they mean bloodbank? For 'patient donation facilities'?”

“It's either that or sperm I suppose” Caitlin said, reddening slightly at the mention of the s-word. Funny how siblings could still blush in each other's company after existing together, literally living in each other's pockets, for years. “I'll give 'em a call tomorrow.”

Although two generations before Martin's time, Robert Craig Knievel came to Marty's attention when he stood dumbfounded before the XR750 – Evel's weapon of choice - at the Smithsonian seven years' ago. Seen through teenage Martin's eyes the old machine looked more like a promotional tool or part of a static display on a harmless children's ride than something a rider would want to trust. Nice to look at but he'd never want to try and use the thing in anger. So who was this guy Knievel and what became of him? As Marty trawled the web and collated data on Evel Knievel he began to commit dates, locations and jump records to memory, mentally pushing marker pins into a cork board that dotted the nation as the stuntman traversed the country, raking in dollars, fans and hospital bills in almost equal proportions.

Caitlin got an interview with the cleaning contract company, had to wait until all – she couldn't believe this, for such a shit job - thirty five short-listed candidates had been assessed; more than a five day wait. In the meantime, she supposed they could plan some more. Of the trip.

“So after Illinois Marty, then where?”

Martin straightened up and looked obliquely at his sister “Kings Island, Cincinnati.”

“Oh. What happened there?”

“He jumped fourteen Greyhound buses, almost crashed but kept the line. Hundred thirty three feet.”

“Huh” Caitlin mused.

“The, and I mean The highest viewer ratings of anything on the Wide World of Sports. Period. October of 1975.”

“Guess that's something then.”

Caitlin was one of three people selected. The uniform was appalling: a set of baggy formless coveralls, cheap synthetic material that harbored static electricity like a nimbus cloud, chintzy smiling stick figure logo over the left breast. Her first day was induction and safety training; all presentations nothing more than a bored dude up the front pressing play on pre-recorded videos, one after the other.

“What next Marty? Where to after Kings Island?”

“I dunno Cait. Either Snake River Canyon or-”

“There, let's go there, Snake River. It sounds at least like we'll be out in nature.”

“But you didn't let me finish Cait. What if the other choice was better?”

She shook her head, “Nope. I want Snake River Canyon.” then frowned “Where is it though? What state?”

“Idaho”

“Oh jeez. No, ok, we'll still go there next.”

Her first day on the job was a non-event. Their access cards were handed out but only one of the cards functioned as it should; Mitch was the lucky guy whose card worked properly. Looking like one of the characters out of the underground movie 'Clerks' he appeared somewhat peeved that he had to stay on while the company that did the access cards was based fifty-five miles away couldn't make any changes until the day after, so Caitlin and Emma headed off home.

“So, from Snake River Canyon we can either go to” Marty looked at a map on his smartphone and tried to figure on a location where both he and Caitlin would get something out of the visit; this trip wasn't just all about him “Houston or... lessee now, how about Nevada, Las Vegas?”

“Nevada is more beautiful..... apart from Las Vegas that is.”

“Can't have one without the other, Cait”

“I know.” She crinkled her nose “What did he jump in Vegas then, showgirls?”

“Almost. A fountain. Caesar's palace. 1967, his first big jump.”

“A fountain? At least it wouldn't hurt if he hit it I suppose.”

“He crashed.”

“Into the water?”

“No. He ended up in the Dunes carpark. Crushed pelvis, fractures, he ended up in a coma.”

“Jesus. I wonder that he kept on trying.”

“Oh he did, believe me....”

“Ok, Las Vegas it is. Oh wait, is it even still there?”

“What?”

“Caesar's? Some of those casinos got put up and tore down pretty damn quickly.”

“Yeah, it's still up.” Martin thumbed his phone and searched just in case, nodded “Yup, still up.”

Caitlin, Mitch and Emma started in earnest on the Monday after the failed access cards got sorted. With relief and a dose of stomach butterflies Caitlin discovered that they were indeed responsible for cleaning at the bloodbank after hours. They were on their way there now. Security here was tight, cat's bottom tight; this was not going to be easy. She and Mitch worked together, scouring surfaces and wiping down daybeds with foul-smelling bleach; thank the lord for gloves and masks. Working their way through the building they discovered that Mitch's access card had more permissions than did Caitlin's. He could get in anywhere and everywhere; hers on the other hand, seemed to be programmed as probably intended for all cards. Caitlin swiped at a reader that lead to a door of a small refrigerated area; the reader beeped angrily and flashed red.

“Ok, no dice.” she said. “Nearly home time anyways.”

Mitch leaned forward, card in hand; green light, the programming recognised as valid. He pulled the door open, they were both hit with a dose of cold, cold air. “Whoa, fuck, not going in there.” Mitch backed off, unhooked his hand from around the handle. Caitlin jammed a foot in the opening and casually bridged the gap.

“Don't like the cold then?”

“Nope.”

“It's ok Mitch, I'll go in-”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, no problem”

Mitch let his card flop back on the lanyard “Hey, I might.... you know, head off now I think. It's nearly eleven.”

Caitlin moved her head back around the door to look at him. “Oh, ok. Have a good-”

“You gonna be ok? With that.” He nodded at the refrigerated area.

She turned her head and looked at the room, began to walk in. “Fine. Look at it, it's only small.”

He needed no more encouragement “Right. Then. See you tomorrow night?”

“Have a good one Mitch.” Caitlin mouthed through the glass panel after the door closed.

Working quickly Caitlin scoured the plasma bags. A positive, A positive, and there's another and another; just need two more. Done. Piling them into the extra plastic bag she'd brought with her she made her way back to the entry. With a single hand she held the bag loaded with plasma, looked up, and realised that the thing staring her in the face beside the door was a card reader. “For freak's sake. Don't-” A harsh beep, winking red light.

“Can't believe they've called us again. You and I have probably driven this stretch of interstate three times in the last week. Fifty five miles seems longer every time we do it.”

“Yep, I know, I know. Chumps at the cleaning company said one of their employees was missing, but later found them stuck. You'd think access cards were some kind of new invention-”

“Where? Stuck where?”

“Ah let's see, wait 'til I find the address. According to the email.... which is...somewhere.... here it is. Delancey street, Southside bloodbank.”