Turn me on, dead man part II

The day had come. He was to be released from hospital after what seemed a lifetime. How short amounts of time feel longer to children, that’s how it felt to him. The entirety of his new lease on life had been spent in an antiseptic prison. A brand new sports car parked in a garage.
“Before you leave,” the nurse began, “there’s something you need to be made aware of. When you walk out the door today, you may be in for a bit of a shock. It’s a circus out there.”
“A circus,” he said, “I’d seen a couple people marching out there with signs.”
“Right, now, it seems just about every religious group, right-wing, left-wing, media outlet, you name it, has picked up on your story. Some of them have been camped there for days.”
“My story. What’s my story.”
“It’s the blood, Adam,” his mother chimed in from the foot of his bed, “your blood.”
“Blood, okay,” he said.
“When the military brought you here,” the nurse continued “there was an issue of security, they wouldn’t tell us why or what that issue was.”
“The military,” he said, surprised.
“The word leaked out that it had to do with some kind of genetic manipulation or…” the nurse trailed off.
“I,” he began cautiously “was genetically manipulated?”
“Well not you, you see.”
“The blood,” his mom chimed in again.
“Right,” the nurse went on, “due to the internal injuries you sustained in your crash, you lost a lot of blood and the word is the military, who found you, were able to make genetic copies of your blood and transfuse it back into you at their base.”
“They’re allowed to do this?” he asked.
“Well, no frankly. Hence, the circus.”
“This,” he began, then started over, “let me see if I got this straight. I was involved in a car crash. I sustained multiple internal injuries which kept me in a coma for three days. During that time, the military picked me up, presumably from the side of the road, and took me back to their base, where they proceeded to clone my blood to save me from death. Then, when the army was finished saving my life, for some reason, they took me to this hospital where I’ve been recovering every since.”
“It appears,” the nurse said, “that’s exactly right.”

The glass double doors to the hospital entrance sucked into the walls star trek style and Adam and his mother were instantly descended upon by the throng. He didn’t know what to expect. Hostility? Could he be the focus of these homemade sign wielding people’s ire? He scanned a couple signs:
YOU CAN’T PLAY GOD
CLONED BLOOD IS NOT OWNED BLOOD
One particularly elaborate sign read: ‘GOD CALLED HIS SON HOME’ and had a picture of a lamb in a cage with a ray of sun shining on it. The sentiment of the signs was simple, LET THE BOY DIE.
The reporters spewed station ID’s and questions in his direction and the cold black eyes of the cameras captured him from every conceivable angle but his attention was transfixed to a man off some distance. He wore a blue tennis shirt and light brown khakis with dark sunglasses and was screaming through a bullhorn.
“9-11 was an inside job. What else is our government covering up? Why did the military (and he emphasized the word suspiciously) take this young man to their facility? They say it was to save his life, I say it was to put a chip in his brain. People, the military have been experimenting with genetics since the LBJ administration. The military doesn’t save lives, it ends them. The military’s genetic research is in one area and one area only, to create the superhuman soldier. They put a chip in this man to track his every movement and you will be next. You will be next.”
By the time the man was finished, Adam was in his mom’s car and they were driving away. He hadn‘t answered a single question and was worried that he hadn‘t seen the last of the reporters. For some reason he couldn’t take his eyes off the man with the bullhorn, trying to penetrate those dark lenses.