9 Tales Told in the Dark 10

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  “We will be ready,” Dr. Biklian said. “Here, in two hours. As you asked.”

  “We do not ask! We instruct you as to our desires! Thwarting us would bring dismal repercussions upon you, your people, your planet!”

  “I understand! We understand!”

  “We will return in two hours.”

  The elevator doors dinged open, spilling light into the room. The tentacle and the hand jerked backward into the darkness of the stairwell, and the alien hissed and gurgled. It slid out of its hiding place and whipped itself along the floor, past the rows of steel drawers, and through the back door that led to the ramp.

  Theresa Repola stood in the elevator, her mouth half open. She must have caught a glimpse of the thing. “What the hell was that?” she asked.

  Dr. Biklian wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Theresa -- Dr. Repola!” he said shakily. “That – that was one of them.”

  Theresa stepped out of the elevator. “One of the – the aliens? Was here?”

  Dr. Biklian nodded. His eyes darted to her and away, again and again. Theresa knew he’d had a crush on her, back before her marriage.

  “That smell!” Theresa said. Under the odor of disinfectant was something sweet but acrid. “The aliens. I knew that we had some kind of deal with them. The staff meeting. But I didn’t know they would actually show up in person.”

  “They’d rather not publicize their comings and goings. But yeah. Our hospital was chosen, for whatever reason. One of them was sent down to oversee things. I drew the short stick, so I’m the one who has to deal with it.” Dr. Biklian – what had his first name, been, anyway? – drew a deep breath. “Pretty horrible stuff.”

  “Wow, I bet,” Theresa said.

  Dr. Biklian walked over to the wall and turned all of the lights back on. “I put a sign up, saying the morgue was closed for the night. We sent email reminders, too.”

  Theresa made a vague sign over her shoulder. “Oh, yeah. I think I might have seen that. Sorry, my brain is fuzzy. I’ve been working on a difficult case, and everything else just got shunted to one side. Once my divorce went through, I thought I would have more free time than before – but it doesn’t seem to work that way! But I came down here because I wanted to check on a former patient – I think the M.E. misunderstood one thing. I didn’t realize it was closed because of, well, because of the aliens.”

  Dr. Biklian nodded. “Yeah. Well, no real harm done, I guess.”

  Theresa started for the shelf containing the remains she wished to examine, and then stopped herself and turned back. “If you don’t mind my asking, why the morgue?”

  Dr. Biklian snorted. “Seems appropriate, after what they did to us in South Carolina and Mumbai. God, I’ll be glad when they’re gone. They say that once they’ve passed through a system, they don’t come back for a thousand years. Maybe by that time we’ll be ready for them. To deal with them on our own terms.”

  “Yeah.”

  Dr. Biklian had been gazing into her eyes. Now he shook himself free and gestured around him. “But you asked why the morgue. Because of the refrigeration we have down here. We need a lot of it.”

  Theresa took a step closer to Dr. Biklian. “Why?”

  “The deal we made – the deal that was forced on us. It’s all about what they want. And they want body parts. Organs. Tissue.”

  “What?” Theresa grimaced. “For what? Not for – for food?”

  Dr. Biklian chuckled. “I wouldn’t put it past them! But no. They want – they need – body parts and organs for transplants. I don’t see how, but apparently they have ways to overcome all kinds of rejection and compatibility issues. They can adapt our parts to themselves, to a whole ‘nother kind of bodily chemistry.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “It’s not something they really want us to publicize.”

  “But you’re telling me. Has it been decided by the hospital admin that I’m not some kind of security risk, or something?”

  Dr. Biklian shrugged. “The aliens’ time here is almost done.”

  “But I doubt you’re supposed to tell anyone at all, yet.”

  “No, you’re right. But I think – I mean, I trust you.”

  This time it was Theresa’s turn to look away. “Thanks.” Was his name Raymond, Roger? Something like that?

  Dr. Biklian said, “Anyway. They’ll be on their way. And once they’re gone, why not tell everyone? After all, it might do the human race some good. To know what kind of deal we struck, how we fulfilled the contract.”

  Theresa looked doubtful. “I don’t know,” she said. “I doubt many people would enjoy thinking about the fact that some aliens – and really detestable aliens, to boot – are out there, wearing human legs and using human lungs and spleens. Uncle Richard and Cousin Cindy’s parts, used by who-knows-what kind of monster.”

  Dr. Biklian grinned smugly. “But you see, that’s not the complete story.”

  Theresa raised an eyebrow.

  Dr. Biklian crossed to the closest refrigerated rack and opened the door. “Take a look,” he said.

  Theresa walked over to stand beside him and craned her neck. “Some arms and hands,” she said. “So many!”

  “Right. And over here we have hearts. There its legs and feet, then we have kidneys--”

  “And all of these are going to the aliens.” Theresa bit her lip. “When I think of all the humans who are waiting for heart transplants, for kidneys, for eyes – and they’re going to these extortionists instead! It’s horrible.”

  Dr. Biklian closed the door. “Nah,” he said. “We couldn’t use these on human recipients, anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “Consider the history of transplants. What used to be a recurring problem? One we don’t have anymore?”

  “Well, the rejection of tissue, of course.”

  “We still have issues with that, but it’s not nearly as bad as it used to be,” Dr. Biklian said. “But what other problem did we used to have? Think back. On the strange events that happened. In the 1950s, for example. Strange biological problems.”

  Theresa looked thoughtful. “The Albuquerque Arachnid? That house-sized spider? But that wasn’t an alien – it was caused by radiation.”

  Dr. Biklian went on. “No, No. I meant human biology. Think back to what you learned in med school.”

  “Oh! You mean the creature with the atom brain? But the AMA never signed off on--”

  Dr. Biklian sighed through his nose. “No, no. Think of the Boise Strangler case.”

  Theresa’s mouth dropped open. “When that donated hand kept strangling people! But that doesn’t happen these days. Medical science has advanced since those dark times. Now, no reputable hospital would ever accept donated organs or body parts from executed murderers or terrorists or people like that. And we run tests. An evil hand, or -- God forbid, a heart – the damage they can do to the unsuspecting patient, and their families and coworkers!”

  Dr. Biklian was nodding, a strange little smile playing on his face.

  Theresa said, “You’re not saying--”

  Dr. Biklian smiled more broadly. “Exactly. The aliens somehow don’t seem to know to take this basic precaution when doing a transplant. I don’t know -- maybe humans are the only species that has this trait. Now, most countries don’t execute people like they used to, but we managed to get quite a few donations from the countries that still do – China, our own country, places like that. Thank God there are still countries that use capital punishment. We’re just now awaiting the final shipment from Saudi Arabia.”

  Theresa put a hand to her mouth. “But that’s horrible! It’s against every medical ethic!”

  “Why should we care?” Dr. Biklian asked. “It’s been decided that if the aliens are as unethical as they have proven themselves to be, in demanding these – these sacrifices! – in exchange for not committing horrors on our cities and our people, well, then – caveat emptor, right? Let the buyer beware! Payback for what they did to
South Carolina!”

  Theresa drew a deep breath. “I guess I can see that,” she finally said. “The idea takes a little getting used to, after medical school drummed into us the importance of taking donations only from kind people. The sort of person who checks the ‘donor’ box on a driver license.” Suddenly she chuckled.

  Dr. Biklian furrowed his brow. “What?” he asked.

  “I just thought of a piece of evil tissue you should include in your shipment,” she said. “My ex-husband has a little body part that got into all kinds of trouble. Shame he’s not already dead, so you could take it.”

  Dr. Biklian cocked his head, waiting for further explanation, then reddened. “Even if he were dead,” he said, “I don’t think the aliens have those.”

  Richard. That was his name.

  THE END

  THE WASHING OF THE BONES by Jeff C. Stevenson

  It was a dismally chilly and rainy September evening in Manhattan when Denise Boulos arrived home to her apartment building and found a package slip notice taped to her mailbox.

  “Hi, Freddy,” she said as she handed over the notification to the concierge. She was still wet from her walk from the subway and was trying not to drip all over the counter.

  “Hello Ms. Boulos,” he said, nodding at her before he disappeared behind the counter space to fetch her package. “Horrible day out, isn’t it?”

  Denise wiped some water from the marble counter and backed up a step. She was tired and wanted to change out of her now-damp work clothes, pour herself a glass of wine, and settle in front of the TV to see what was on the DVR. She glanced to her left out the lobby window and saw people hurrying past, umbrellas held overhead like multicolored alien spaceships hovering over targets. It was depressing it had gotten so cold and the weather so lousy so soon after the perfect summer. For most of June, July and August, the weather had been a perfect mid 70s with very little of the unbearable New York humidity that typically rung everyone out like a dirty washcloth. Blue skies and light breezes, and when it did rain, it only fell during the weekday so the weekends were spared any unpleasantness.

  But that was all over and the fall was swiftly approaching. The change in season was already all around her. Even Starbucks was in on it, pushing their Pumpkin Spice Latte a week earlier than usual.

  “Here you go,” Freddy said, magically reappearing with a Federal Express envelope held high like he had pulled a rabbit out of a hat. He handed over a clipboard where he had made an X next to where she should sign, indicating she had claimed her package.

  Denise initialed the spot and thanked him, tucking the envelope under her arm. She wasn’t expecting anything overnighted to her and while she waited for the elevator, she checked to see who had sent the packet to her.

  Athina Panagakos. The name wasn’t immediately familiar.

  It wasn’t until seconds later when the elevator arrived with a Ding! that it dawned on Denise that Athina Panagakos was her Aunt.

  Denise tossed the envelope on the kitchen table, shrugged off her wet jacket and hung it on the bathroom shower rod to dry. The apartment was strangely cool so she turned on the heater, much earlier than she had in previous years. She felt sweaty and grimy; even though it was chilly out, the subway had been packed with people and so the temperature seemed to have risen by fifteen degrees. A quick shower was needed and she felt much better when she was in her t-shirt and yoga pants. After pouring a glass of wine, she took the bottle and the Federal Express envelope and flopped down on the sofa. Outside, she could see the rain was still at it but twelve floors up, she really didn’t hear it. She took a sip of the wine, then another, and then tilted her head back and sighed with contentment. That was better. Her shoulders ached a bit from being hunched over against the wind while she had grasped her umbrella and fought her way home on the wet city streets, and she really needed a few moments to simply relax before she opened the envelope.

  At forty-two, Denise had been married and divorced twice but had no children, thank God. She had been single for almost five years and would date in spasms as she called it, posting on all the dating sites she could find but usually chickening out on ever meeting a guy in person. She felt two marriages had shown her with great certainty that she really wasn’t relationship material. In both instances—as she told her friends—the guys simply hadn’t held her attention or interest and after a couple years, they had drifted apart like boats no longer anchored. The passion declined, the fire had crumbled to embers, and the relationship had cooled. Friends asked if she had ever loved the guys she had married and she had always answered, “Of course!” but she doubted if she had. They had come along at the right time in her life and career—she was a personal shopper for high-end customers—and it had seemed like the right thing to do. Some things just made sense and that’s what she had thought about getting married. Denise acknowledged that she moved through life more with her head than her heart, but she was who she was and knew she’d never change. “One foot in front of the other,” she always said.

  She was an only child and her parents had both died within five years of one another, her Mom first which left her Dad drowning in grief and depression for five years before he finally succumbed to a heart attack while he slept. He had never gotten over the death of his wife, the one and only love of his life. She had always been the focal point of his existence and even after she had passed, he yearned for her and their life together. Whenever he and Denise got together, all he wanted to speak about was his wife and how he missed her.

  “It’s always about him and his loss and his grief and loneliness,” she had bitterly told her best friend Jolie one evening a month before he had passed away. “He’s never asked how I’m doing since my Mom died.” She and Jolie had started out in the personal shopping business together years ago with Saks and Bloomingdale’s, and then had ventured out on their own, each making a success of it.

  They were at the Tavern Lounge, their local bar, and Jolie had been surprised to hear Denise speak with such emotion about her father, but she knew better than to respond immediately; better to wait to see how much Denise would share. Jolie had watched her friend walk away from two marriages with barely a tear shed, so any attempt to explain the unexplainable and uncertain depths of sorrow her father was experiencing might be lost on her friend. Grief was a dark and treacherous monster that sucked you in and held on tight for as long as it wanted. Jolie’s twin sister Abbie had died two years earlier of breast cancer and Jolie was still half buried in mourning, so she could easily understand why Denise’s father was focused on the absence of his wife, not the presence of his daughter. Besides, Denise usually shut down emotional discussions; she kept matters of her heart closely guarded secrets and rarely expressed what she was feeling.

  “So, I’m asking; tell me, how are you doing?” Jolie had said, and at the same time indicated to the bartender that they needed a refill on their white wines.

  “I’m feeling a bit lost, I think. Whenever Dad dies, I’ll be all alone, an orphan. Then what?”

  “I’m an orphan,” Jolie reminded her. “With Abbie and my folks gone, I’m all by myself. Hey, you can be my sister. Then we’ll have each other and you won’t be alone. Or so lost.”

  Denise had smiled at that and realized what Jolie was doing. By mentioning Abbie, she was reminding her that everyone had tough times in life, everyone suffered a loss.

  “So it’s not all about me, I guess, is it?” Denise said. A glass of white wine was placed in front of her.

  “Here’s to sisters,” Jolie said, and they had clinked glasses.

  Eighteen months after her Dad’s death, Denise still wasn’t sure what she was feeling or if she was still lost or what it meant to be an orphan. All she knew was that he had died, and a week after the funeral, she had returned to her clients and her father’s simple estate was settled within four months. And then it was back to her one foot in front of the other life with the occasional dating spasm as a distraction.

 
; She was no longer certain if she was feeling anything or if she had ever really acknowledged the death of her mother or grieved the loss of her parents. She recalled her Dad’s sorrow and the way he wore it like a heavy coat around himself; thick and insulated so she could never get close to him. After he had died, she felt as if she was wearing the same impenetrable garment, and then the numbness had set in. A day would pass, barely noticed, and then the weekend would appear and vanish; blink, and it was gone, and then the month was over and then an entire season had passed. And then a year and now here it was, almost fall and she wasn’t sure how she was feeling, if she was feeling anything.

  I’m feeling a bit lost.

  She sat up straight on the sofa and took another drink of the wine, then finished it off, and poured herself another glass. That was beginning to be a habit, one that Jolie had expressed concern over.

  “Drinking alone is never good,” she had cautioned.

  “Why? I’m home, I’m not driving, what’s the harm?” Denise had been mildly irritated at what she thought Jolie was insinuating. “Besides, it helps me sleep.”

  “So you’re self-medicating with alcohol?”

  “No, it helps me relax.”

  “How much do you drink at night?” Jolie had asked, ironically, Denise thought, since they were drinking wine at the Tavern Lounge.

  “Maybe a glass, maybe two,” Denise had lied.

  But it was always at least three glasses and sometimes four or hell, why not the whole bottle if she had no appointments the next day?

  The Federal Express envelope next to her on the sofa captured her attention, pulling her away from her random wine musings. The packet appeared to have a very faint glow or shimmer to it and she found that the bright white, purple and orange colors dazzled her a bit.

  She thought she was hungry but her stomach seemed a bit uncertain with only the wine in it. It was after seven and she usually had eaten by now, some takeout she would have brought home or a microwavable dinner.