“Dad…?”
“I heard you. What’s not right?”
“That you’ve been here two weeks. Your hip replacement was four months ago.”
Mike gaped at her for a moment and then shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve only been here…well, maybe it’s been sixteen, eighteen days, but—”
“No. Your surgery was on April sixteenth. They moved you here from the hospital a week later. It’s August twenty-second now.” Angela picked up the newspaper she’d brought him and held the front page before his eyes. “See?”
Mike squinted at the date: August 22. “Four months…? But I…why am I still here?”
His daughter answered slowly, cautiously, “Dad…I think…you’re a little confused—”
Remembering the black thing that had perched on his chest, Mike cut her off. “You have to get me out of here—that nurse, the one at night…she’s killing people.”
Angela uttered a small, sharp laugh. “You mean Maria? She’s a nice lady and a hard worker. I get tired just watching her. She’s not killing people.”
After that, Angela stayed for hours (or maybe minutes), chatting about her job and her husband and how her own back was hurting and the doctors said she had osteoporosis, but Mike didn’t really listen. His mind was on other things.
Like the battle he knew now that he’d have to wage alone.
—
Maria came that night without the black.
“How are you, Mr. Carson?” He leaned forward as she fluffed his pillow. Her face shifted, and for a second he saw his own mother. But then he remembered: Mom’s gone. And this one…
“Where’s your little friend?”
“You mean Manny? He’s a few rooms down, I think, helping Mr. Darakjian to the toilet.”
Mike gripped the railings and cursed his failing strength. Why am I so goddamn weak? I shouldn’t be like this.
“Did you know I fought in World War Two?”
Maria smiled. “I did know that. You told me before. You even got a Purple Heart. You’re a hero.”
He didn’t remember telling her anything. Could she somehow read his thoughts? Did the black thing get into his mind? “I took shrapnel in the back from a Jap grenade. But I survived that. I’m still in pretty good shape for sixty.”
The nurse leaned forward in condescension. “I think you are a little older than that, Mr. Carson.”
Mike raised a hand to wave away her comment, but he froze: The arm before him wasn’t his. This arm had skin that was brittle like something cooked in a skillet; the skin was mottled, tiny white blotches interspersed with purpling bruises and lighter flesh.
This can’t be my arm.
“I tell you what, Mr. Carson: I’m gonna leave a note for Dr. Singh to check your medication tomorrow—you’re having a little more trouble than usual.”
As Mike watched, the blackness appeared, hovering over her head, descending until he saw her features through a dark curtain, transforming her face into a distorted mask. “Did you know I was stationed in the Philippines?”
There was no answer.
—
Mr. Darakjian was missing from breakfast.
“Where’s Aram?” Mike hadn’t especially liked the small, fastidious retired jeweler, but he appreciated the man’s calm, quiet manner.
Carmen, the young nurse’s aide who couldn’t have been more than twenty, cleared Mike’s half-eaten food away. “Oh, I’m afraid Mr. Darakjian had some kind of seizure last night and they had to take him to the hospital.”
Mike almost told the girl that he didn’t believe her, but then he wondered if she’d been lied to as well, if she really believed that Aram had simply suffered some sort of “seizure.”
The day was pleasant and warm, and after breakfast Carmen steered Mike’s wheelchair out to the nursing home’s central courtyard, where a few other residents were already parked. Mike didn’t speak to any of them; he thought most of them were either delirious or didn’t understand English. Whether they actually appreciated the sun’s warmth or were put there so someone else could imagine they did, he couldn’t say. His life now was about waiting: waiting for meals, waiting to heal, waiting for nurses or doctors or Angela, his only visitor. Waiting for the pictures in his head to stop swimming and make sense. Waiting to die.
As he waited, he looked in through the glass doors, watching the endless stream of people that flowed through the corridors of the nursing home. Nurses in scrubs with printed cartoon characters, doctors in white coats, visitors with magazines or candy…
A man in combat fatigues.
Mike sat up in the wheelchair, feeling his heart beat faster. That man had looked familiar, like—
Sergeant Dennis Strahan. His friend from the Pacific, who’d once yanked Mike out of the way of a Japanese sniper. Dennis Strahan, whom he’d lost touch with after the war had ended, whom he hadn’t heard from since 1946…
How could he be here?
Mike grabbed the wheels of his chair and tried to roll himself forward, but he was immobile. Brakes—Carmen had locked the brakes, hadn’t she? Mike leaned over the side of the chair to reach down for the rubber handles that stopped the tires from rolling, but the action sent a bolt of agony arcing out of his hip and he gasped, falling back.
Goddamn it! He had to get to Denny before he left; Denny could help, would understand—
“Whoa, Mr. Carson, hold on—what are you doing?” Carmen rushed up to him.
“I saw…someone I know. Got to…reach him.”
“Okay, but hang on.” Carmen pushed back on the brakes, got behind the chair, and rolled Mike into the building. “Which way?”
Except for an elderly woman dozing in a wheelchair and two doctors, the corridor was empty.
Mike felt the disappointment like a physical blow. “He’s gone.”
“Well,” Carmen said, leaning down over him to catch his eye, “maybe he’ll be back. But next time just call me, Mr. Carson, okay? Don’t try to roll this by yourself—you’re still not strong enough.”
Mike didn’t argue with her—he knew it was true. He wasn’t strong enough, and he knew he wouldn’t be as long as the black thing sucked the life from him.
—
“Another one died this week.”
Angela looked down from the television, currently tuned to an insipid sitcom. “Oh, I’m sorry, Pop. Did you know them?”
He shrugged. “Not well, but…that’s six that have died in the three weeks since I’ve been here.”
Angela sighed and used the wired remote to turn down the sound. “Dad, you’ve been here for five months.”
“I know you keep saying that, but…”
“But what?”
But it’s not true, and the black thing’s already gotten to you, my only daughter.
On the television, the sitcom’s lead character laughed and pointed as a woman walked past him. The woman was Mike’s first-grade teacher.
—
“Where were you born, Maria?”
The nurse had removed the bedpan and was cleaning Mike off; he’d long ago steeled himself against humiliation, even if his attempt hadn’t been entirely successful.
“A little town outside Manila; you wouldn’t know it.”
“You don’t look like all the other Filipinos here.” It was true; virtually the entire caregiving staff was Filipino, but only Maria had more exotic eyes and a different skin tone.
“My grandmother was Japanese. She came to the Philippines after the war.”
Mike’s gut clenched with certainty. He’d fought them before.
Maria finished, and Mike felt a small stab of pain as she repositioned him. She saw his wince. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Carson, but you don’t get another pain pill until four.”
“I don’t want it.” He was tired of being medicated. He thought it made him more susceptible to the black.
The nurse shrugged and shuffled from the room.
Mike saw movement in the corner, a shadow
darker than what was usually there. It oozed around the ceiling and down the wall, out of his sight behind the curtain, and he knew it had settled on the comatose man in the next bed.
The man would be dead in the morning.
—
A day later he saw Dennis Strahan again. This time he was accompanied by a wiry kid with pale skin and red hair; it took Mike a few minutes to recall the kid’s name.
It’d been Robert, but they’d all called him Irish. He was their communications officer.
He’d been killed when a Japanese Zero had strafed their camp.
Or had he? Mike tried to riffle through his memories, but they spun away from him like cards flung from a deck. Had he really seen Irish dead? Was he thinking of some other soldier? Had Irish really been their radio man?
“Mr. Carson, are you okay?” Carmen stood over him, her youthful features creased.
“Carmen, can you take me to the front desk? I have to talk to whoever’s in charge of admissions. Or maybe visitors. Right, probably visitors.”
Carmen looked puzzled, but wheeled him to the nursing home’s lobby. Alisha, who ran the front office, was gone, but Mike went through the visitors’ guest book for the last week. There was no entry for either Dennis Strahan or Robert “Irish” O’Connor.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Carson,” Carmen said, as she pushed Mike back to his room.
But Mike suspected she wasn’t sorry; he thought she probably knew that the logs were just a cheat, a forgery. Of course they wouldn’t have Denny and Irish sign in with everyone else.
When they arrived at the room and Mike saw the two empty beds, he asked Carmen what happened to his roommate. “Oh, Mr. Lee—he died this morning. You get the room to yourself for a while, I guess.”
Right…just me and some black nightmare waiting for me to go next.
It was time to map out his strategy.
—
Mike stared into the tiny paper cup Maria had handed to him. “What’s the white capsule?”
“It’s something new Dr. Singh prescribed for you.”
“Yeah, but what is it? I’m not taking it unless I know what it is.”
For an instant, Mike saw real anger replace Maria’s usual placid smile, then it vanished…but the black thing was present, creeping up over her shoulder and then perching there as if it, too, were staring at him. “It will help with your confusion, Mr. Carson.”
“I’m not confused.”
Maria set the cup down and put her hands on her substantial hips while the edges of the black throbbed with anticipation. “Okay, then: What year is this?”
“It’s…” Mike’s mouth hung open, and he realized he really wasn’t sure. Denny Strahan had still looked young, and hadn’t they just gotten Angela her first tricycle, the blue metal one with the ribbon tassels on the handlebars? “…it’s 1952.”
“Trust me, Mr. Carson, you are confused. It’s 2013.”
“But that’s…” Again, he stopped in mid-sentence, considering. The elderly woman who’d visited a few days ago…that had been Angela, his daughter. Elderly. If Angela was in her sixties, then…he shook his head. “No. I don’t care what year it is. I won’t take that pill.” Mike glanced up and saw the dark void opening and closing like a hungry mouth. “You’re just trying to kill me off faster. You and that thing. Did you bring it over with you from the Philippines, whatever it is?”
Maria started to reply, but clapped her mouth shut. After a few seconds she picked up the paper cup of pills. “So you won’t take this?”
“No. Not until I talk to Dr. Singh.”
“Okay.”
She pushed her cart full of medication out of the room without further comment.
When she was gone, Mike pulled out the knife he’d held beneath the sheet. He’d stolen it at dinner; it was dull, really more of a butter knife than a weapon, but it was the best he could manage right now. He knew better than to try to use it alone; his plan depended on Denny and Irish helping. They’d all fought and won a bigger war than this one. Mike knew they’d help him; they had to fight the black thing before it killed anyone else.
Before it killed Mike.
—
At seven a.m., before breakfast, Mike saw Denny and Irish pass in the hall outside.
“Denny,” he called. He cleared his throat and shouted, “Denny! Denny, it’s Mike Carson! In here!”
He shouted until the big male nurse, Manny, came blundering into the room. “Whoa, hey, man, what’s the problem?”
“I saw my friends out in the hall just now—Denny and Irish.”
Manny leaned back and made a show of looking in both directions. “It’s only seven, dude, the place is empty. Really, there’s nobody in the halls.”
Mike looked up at the nurse, who couldn’t have been older than twenty-four, whose hair was buzz-cut and arms were covered with tattoos, and he felt a surge of envy. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“What’s coming. The black. One day you’ll find yourself in a place like this, and you’ll understand.”
The nurse gestured at Mike impatiently. “Yeah, whatever. Look, dude, you gotta keep it down, okay? Or they’ll put you on stronger meds, and you’ll never get better. Know what I’m sayin’?”
Mike knew he’d never get better anyway, but he nodded and promised to be quiet. Besides…why hadn’t they stopped, Denny and Irish? There was no way they couldn’t have heard him. Unless…
No. The alternative was unthinkable. The alternative led to the black thing that wound itself around him at night.
No.
—
“It’s something to help with your delirium, Mr. Carson.”
Dr. Singh was a stout little man with yellow teeth and permanent, lavender-hued pouches beneath his eyes. He gestured at the white capsule in Mike’s hand.
“I’m not delirious.”
“What year is it?”
Mike slammed the pill down on his bedside tray. “Goddamn it, why are you people always asking me that?”
Dr. Singh was unfazed by Mike’s outburst. “Can you answer the question? Or how about this one: How old are you?”
“I’m…I’m…” Mike stopped in frustration as he realized it was true—he couldn’t answer. The numbers danced just out of reach—twenty-seven…forty-three…fifty-two…“Ask my friends Denny and Irish. They’re here somewhere. They’ll know.”
“Who are Denny and Irish?”
“My squadmates. Did you know I was in the war, Doctor?”
Singh nodded tiredly. “Yes, sir, and I salute you for that. But Mr. Carson, please trust me when I say that you are suffering from delirium that was probably a result of the anesthetic used during your hip surgery. And that”—he pointed at the white pill—“will help you. You want to know how old you are, don’t you?”
“What I want to know is how to kill that thing, the black thing that comes with that nurse…Maria. They’re connected somehow.”
“Maria’s a very good nurse, sir. And I think if you take that”—Singh thrust a jaw at the pill—“things will make sense.”
Mike picked up the pill and studied it. Dr. Singh handed him a cup of water. “That’s the right decision.”
Impulsively, Mike threw the pill into his mouth, grabbed the cup, and swallowed. The pill was large and hurt going down.
“Good man, Mr. Carson. I’ll check in tomorrow and see how you’re doing.”
The doctor left. Mike glanced at the wall clock mounted next to the television—was that three-ten or two-fifteen? The light coming into the room from outside told him it was still daytime, so he had a few hours before Maria came on duty. If he could just find Denny and Irish…
They stood over his bed.
Mike nearly wept in relief. “You’re here! Boy, am I glad to see you guys.”
Denny and Irish said nothing. They stood, unmoving, smiling.
A part of Mike’s mind screamed out from beneath the layers of shifting fog covering it:
They’re not really here. But Mike pushed that small, rational voice down as he reached beneath the mattress and found the warm stainless steel.
“Tonight, fellas. I need your help.”
Denny and Irish looked at the knife. And nodded.
—
It was just after ten-thirty when Maria came into his room. “How’s my favorite soldier?”
At first Mike thought she meant Denny or Irish; then he realized she hadn’t even noticed them standing just behind the curtain that separated the beds.
“I’m better,” Mike answered.
Maria grinned. “Oh, that’s very good to hear.” She turned away to check his chart.
Mike fingered the knife he held under his gown. He had it figured out: The black was connected to Maria, so if she was gone…He looked to Denny and Irish, whom he could just see behind the sheet. Their hollow eyes had fixed on Maria. Mike gripped the knife, his grip slick on its metal. If he could just drive it into Maria’s belly…he wasn’t sure if it would kill her or not, but it was his best shot. His only shot.
Maria walked toward the head of the bed.
Mike moved the knife beneath the sheet, ready.
He looked to Denny and Irish—
They vanished.
Mike stared, and then the whirling blocks in his mind tumbled down into place. They fell in neat piles, forming solid thoughts, walls of memories, monuments of awareness. He dimly heard something clatter to the floor. “I’m ninety-two,” he rasped out.
Maria looked up, her eyes wide. “Oh, that’s very good, Mr. Carson. Dr. Singh will be so pleased to hear that.” She looked down at the floor, bent over, and came up with the knife. “How did that get there?”
“How long have I been here?”
The nurse forgot the knife, dropping it into a pocket of her scrubs. “It’s been five months since your hip surgery.”
“Five months…” Mike remembered bits of that time, but it was like grasping at shreds being blown by a gust: old army friends, teachers from his childhood, tricycles…
The black. Mike looked up and saw it waiting above his bed, near the ceiling.
He knew it now, and it hadn’t come with Maria; he’d been wrong to think it had. He could admit that now.
No, the black had already been here, in this place where the aged and infirm came to die. Its appetite was ageless and could never be satisfied, but it never went hungry.
Dark Screams, Volume 4 Page 2